


Toast and Tea

by Hestia01



Series: Umbrellaverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Erased identity, F/M, Gen, working poor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: "Bread and water can easily be toast and tea"  When Mycroft and Vesta are disappeared by his shadow government goons and left with nothing but entry-level jobs, he has to learn to navigate a world where he is a nobody. Luckily, he doesn't have to do it alone. Life at the bottom is hard and unfair, but there's still hope. After all, Mycroft was able to name a worthy successor to hold the country together in his absence...





	1. Erased

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after "Under His Umbrella". I advise reading that one first, due to the things from it that I mention throughout this fic.

Mycroft awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. Blearily, he groped over at his nightstand and picked it up. Squinting at the screen, he answered.

“Hello?” he answered hoarsely. All signs of sleepiness fell from him at the news this phone call brought. “Now? But...” his rapidly-flowing thoughts paused for a moment on his wife. “Very well. How long do I have? I see. And how long will this last? Yes, I know you can't tell me exactly, but...yes, I understand. That will suffice. And as for my successor, activate Agent Thames. Immediately.” 

He hung up and strode down the hall to his wife's room. Despite being married, they'd preferred to keep separate bedrooms. Occasionally, they would share a bed, but it was more the exception than the rule. He gazed in at her by the light shining in from the hall. Vesta rolled over with a soft sigh, a sleepy smile playing across her lips as she burrowed into her pillow. A pang of fondness jolted Mycroft's calm contemplation. He steeled himself, knowing there wasn't much time. With a rough clearing of his throat, he entered and bent over the bed.

“Vesta,” he shook her shoulder. “Vesta, wake up, it's important.”

She grunted softly and shrugged away.

“Sauté, we need three calamari on the fly.”

She sat up straight, eyes still tightly closed, “Flying, heard!” Then she woke up the rest of the way. With a cozy grin, she made a show of scooting over to make room for her husband.

“No, I'm afraid not, no. Vesta...Something is going to happen, I'm afraid can't tell you the specifics. I wish I could.” Mycroft sat down on the bed close to her. He took both of her hands in their preferred sign of fervent affection. It was their accepted version of a passionate kiss. Vesta squeezed back, suddenly feeling very afraid. “The short of it is we've been...ruined. We've been black-bagged, Vesta, as of today we will no longer exist. Our assets have been seized, frozen. We're ruined.” He gave her a moment to absorb this. Her eyes were wide and she brought a hand to her mouth. “You have a choice. You may stay here and assist my replacement, or you may join me in exile.” His posture was stiff, the crippling dread just settling in on his shoulders. It was a terrible choice he gave her, with no clear advantage. To drag his wife, his partner and friend, into ruination; or be parted from her indefinitely, while forced to make his own way alone.

Vesta looked around her sumptuous room, all of the comforts he'd provided her with, the implied guarantee of security for all of her natural days, gone with that shake of her shoulder. With a sulkily twisted lip, she sighed. “Of course, I'm coming with you. Who would take care of you? Do we at least have time to gather some supplies? Or do we have to leave now?”

“You don't have to come. You could--”

“Stay and be your replacement's P.A., I understand. I'm coming with you.” Vesta got up and swept a robe around her shoulders. “How long do we have?”

Out of habit, Mycroft felt for his pocket watch, then remembered he was still in his pajamas. “We have until ten. Once we leave, we can't come back. Understand?”

Vesta nodded, thinking about what they would likely need. “You hop in the shower, dear. I'll get started.” She dressed quickly, then reached under the bed for a suitcase. She packed with well-remembered efficiency, choosing her clothes for their warmth, sturdiness and good quality over aesthetics. She tossed in her tablet and charger, ensuring that they may have some form of entertainment while they were on the run. Comfortable, durable shoes, plenty of clean underwear, then she raided her bathroom for her collection of soaps. After food, water, and shelter, cleanliness was a priority, and would be a basic comfort that they would miss. She packed her old patchwork quilt that she brought with her from her old life, as well as her knives and special stash of seasonings. She would have run back into a burning building for those! Then, she went downstairs.

Down in the foyer, the clock struck eight. There was still plenty of time to make necessary preparations. Vesta may have been comfortably kept for the past few years, but her ability to disappear in a hurry never left. She'd moved out under cover of night a time or two. She'd once managed to fit all of her worldly possessions into a cab. While she hadn't expected to utilize these skills again, it was comforting to her that some things never left you.

She popped into the kitchen and started the coffee. She found two travel mugs as well. While it brewed, she investigated possible supplies for their trip. Without knowing where they were going, and for how long, she stuck to non-perishables that could be easily carried and cooked. Vesta's investigation of the kitchen struck her as chilling. Someone, or multiple someones, had been in the house in preparation for their departure. The refrigerators had already been emptied of perishable food, apart from sticks of butter, as though someone had done it in the night. The only produce left was a sack each of onions, potatoes, and apples. Vesta packed it all, imagining the cooks, her friends Roger and Jamie sympathetically leaving them for her along with a 5 kg bag of white rice. A few large cans of olive oil would be useful, too. She felt infinitely grateful that they bought a few things with a long shelf life in bulk. 

Vesta barely noticed her hands shaking or the tears running down her face. Despite being torn so abruptly from her home, she was still determined to do what she must. She shook her head, clearing it of self-pity—for now. _I've got to be the strong one. Mycroft has always had everything he's wanted and needed. He's never gone without. I have to teach him, to help him as much as I can. I can't afford to mope_. In addition to food, Vesta grabbed as much coffee and tea as she could carry, as well as a few necessary cooking and serving implements. 

She took a load out to the garage, selecting the car with the most storage space in the back. Would they be living out of their car? Would they find a place to live? What would they do for money, for work? A sick feeling twisted her stomach, one she well remembered from her more precarious existence. 

She went back in and looted the linen cupboard for towels, sheets, and blankets, remembering her fair share of bitterly cold winters when she couldn't afford to turn the heat up. Next was the liquor cabinet. Knowing that the immediate future would be hard for them, Vesta squirreled away her husband's favorite brandy and scotch. She selected a few bottles of wine and her favorite port. Before she came to work for Mycroft Holmes, she would never have thought she'd have a favorite port. The job had brought its share of privileges, and resulted in spoiling her into expensive tastes. _Any port in a storm_ she grinned at her own pun. Another trip out to the car complete and there was still some room. Vesta went back into the house, feeling less panicked and more prepared for what was in store for them. 

Coffee was done. She poured them each a cup and filled their travel mugs before heading upstairs for a final look-around. Vesta hopped in the shower; as the hot, steamy water sprayed down on her, she wondered when she'd have a decent shower again. She took her time, savoring it, enjoying it, committing it to memory. She remembered her old flat; the water never stayed hot for long enough, the pressure was weak. 

It still wasn't clear how much they were going to have to rough it, but Vesta felt it best to mentally prepare for the worst—living in the car, washing in tube station restrooms—she only hoped they wouldn't be reduced to begging. She didn't think Mycroft could bear that sort of existence, when it would hurt even her pride. It had been humbling enough when she had to apply for government assistance a few years ago. Such a sudden change, first thing in the morning, was all too shocking. She couldn't even think of all of the possibilities for their fate.

They still had one more hour to prepare. Vesta grimly thought how lucky they were to have as much time and resources as they did. She dried off, swept her robe back on, and went back into her bedroom to get dressed. At this point, she'd sunk back into a blur. She was barely aware of what she was even putting on, but the alarm bell in her head clanged, urging her to _be prepared._

With an annoyed swipe across her face, Vesta realized she was crying again. She fought the urge to slap herself out of it. It was with steely determination that she remembered something singularly important about herself. She remembered Mycroft showing her a picture of her own dead body, or a near enough likeness. “They can't kill what's already dead.” 

She swept purposefully through her room, this time she went to the back of her closet. Unlocking a small safe that was the size of a large shoebox, she took out and counted a stack of cash. It could be enough for a security deposit in her old neighborhood, some might even be saved for an emergency. Despite Mycroft's assurances that she would never face need or want again, she still stashed away a little money every month in her “rainy day” fund. _And it's raining now. Good thing we both have an umbrella._ She thought with a smile as her fingers closed on her beloved engagement gift. With a sentimental smirk, she tied her pink silk scarf around her neck and shouldered her bag. Tapping her umbrella to the floor, she felt sufficiently ready for battle.

She emerged once more, meeting her husband in the corridor. He'd packed a few bags and was looking glum. He looked his wife up and down, reading her sense of confidence in her posture. Hope flickered forth once more.

“I'm sorry to be putting you through this, Vesta. You are...certain that you won't reconsider? My replacement will need all the help she can get.”

“I'm coming with you,” Vesta asserted. She looked down at his luggage again. “Did you pack plenty of warm clothes?”

“Yes, Mummy,” he intoned, rolling his eyes. “And my toothbrush.”

“Good,” she grinned. “Come on, coffee is getting cold.” Before they sat down at the table, Mycroft went immediately to hunt in the kitchen. Their small staff had evidently been given prior word of their dismissal, far more notice than the Holmes' got, so they had time enough to arrange other work. Vesta popped back into the kitchen with him and made them each a few slices of honey wheat toast spread with marscapone and strawberry jam. If there had been more time, she would have made something more substantial, but the morning was quickly ticking away.

They shared their breakfast in awkward silence. Mycroft saw his wife's face turning pink from suppressed emotion. She swallowed back a sob and cleared her throat. He reached across the table and took her hand, looking very uncomfortable in the presence of _emotion_. “Please don't cry,” he muttered, in an unexpectedly soft tone.

Vesta breathed a heated, watery sigh. “This was home. I...I don't know if you understand what that means, but I was a virtual nomad my whole life, never took root anywhere. This...this was home.”

“Then stay. Darling, if it kills you to leave, then don't.” He had to stop himself from sharing more than he was allowed to, he couldn't even tell her that they would see each other again someday. That would only lead to more questions, ones even he didn't have the answers to.

Vesta shook her head stubbornly. “ _You're_ my home, too. Don't you want me to come?”

Mycroft sighed hotly, “Yes and no. Yes, I want us to stay together, I can't even imagine what it would like to be apart now. And no, I don't want to put you through this. I don't want to lead you into exile, back into poverty. You've been comfortable for several years, and I can still see how your periods of want mark you. Your obsession with being warm enough, and the way the first chill in the air steals your breath away tells me you've been cold and debilitatingly ill; the way you had no trouble with the diet I set you on in the beginning tells me your nonexistent figure was due to destitution rather than vanity, and you were all too happy to have regular meals. You kept clothes and other personal items long after they should have been replaced, as if you still believed you had to make do with what you had.”

Vesta gave him a weak smile. He sounded just like his brother in the middle of an involuntary stream of deductions. As much as the two Holmes brothers sparred with each other and rubbed each other the wrong way, they remained remarkably, almost laughably similar.

The doorbell rang and a slim package was shoved through the mail slot. By the time they got to the door, all they could see was a black car driving away. Vesta opened it and found files of papers, personal information...their new identities. She flipped through hers with detached interest—today still didn't feel real—handing the other set over to her husband.

Mycroft took his and rifled through it, then glanced over and saw Vesta smiling. Whatever for?

“What are you grinning at?”

She held up the top page, still looking oddly touched. “Did you do these?”

He rolled his eyes with a growl. “Yes. Everyone had to have alternate identities made up. When you came along, I updated my file to include you, just in case.”

Vesta looked at her new name, Genevieve Musgrave née Bartlett, wondering to herself how many new identities she will have had before the end. He'd kept it similar to her original name, but still, due to his love of embellishment, made it much prettier than her old one. Elegant. And no matter what, she never could seem to shake her old last name. She smiled over at him, now curious what he chose for his name. He was scowling. Vesta decided that she had to be the one with the cool head for now and put her new information into her favorite big purse, as if this was just another day of work.

“Hey, we'll be fine. Right?” Mycroft nodded sulkily, glad to have his faithful PA keeping a brave face.

He traced her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Thank you for taking this so well.”

“I'll probably freak out later, just warning you.”

With a flick of his eyebrows, he slid his umbrella out of the rack by the door. “Likewise.” He took one last long look at his home, his life. He remembered his replacement, at least it was someone he trusted. Indeed, he would trust the running of the country to no one else in these circumstances.

“I wish there were two of you,” Mycroft muttered sincerely.

“Why? Still think your replacement needs me?”

“No. England does.”

Vesta blushed, beaming at his praise. She was a born diplomat, and natural negotiator. Plus, after being groomed and trained by Mycroft himself, she found herself equal to his levels of manipulation. “Thank you. That means a lot. Let's hope it doesn't all fall apart in our absence.”

 

Far off, on the other side of town, a secret red phone rang in a modest flat.

A man's deep voice spoke, not waiting for a greeting, and offering none. “Agent Thames. You've been activated. Effective immediately. You have the option of operating out of your current residence, or move to your predecessor's quarters.”

“I'll stay. Thank you.”

“Available staff will be given orders. They are at your disposal. Good luck, Agent Thames.”

“Thank you. I'll do my best.”

 

Vesta threw Mycroft's bags into the back seat next to her own. He took the driver's seat, running his fingers over the wheel. 

“This is kind of like that part in _Sound of Music_ , isn't it?” She suggested with a wry look of determination.

Mycroft let out a light chuckle. Trust Vesta to have an appropriate film reference for the occasion. “Yes. All right, check...list?!” And he was completely taken aback to see that his wife had actually written out a checklist!

“Appliances shut off, check. Clothes, shoes, toiletries, electronics, chargers?” She glanced at Mycroft, who nodded. “Check. Petty cash fund...check. Water filter, tarp, rope, heat reflective blankets, cooking gear, matches...”

“Are we going camping?” Mycroft asked sardonically. “Or perhaps to Mordor?”

“I don't know, maybe? All you said is that we're ruined, that we don't exist anymore, and we can't go home again. I'm preparing for all possible eventualities! That's my job!”

“Where the hell did you find all that, though?” He demanded as he started the car and began driving at random.

“They were in the garage, in a plastic bin marked 'camping stuff'. I think it was your dad's handwriting.” Vesta was silent for a moment after confessing this. “Did you and your family camp much? Like, actually spend a week in the woods?”

Mycroft laughed, it was a strange memory. “Just once. I stored a few of my parents' less-used things. They don't have the space for all kinds of rubbish. They'd be happy to know we found a use for them.” He, too was quiet, remembering. “We went after...” he faltered. “After...Eurus got taken away. They thought a change of scenery would do us good. Mummy cried. Sherlock and I did our best to be cooperative. Sherlock had already forgotten her entirely. He just knew Mummy was sad. He thought it was because of his lost dog. That's all he was left with, a false memory of a dog he never had, because he couldn't bear to live with the truth. I envy him.”

Vesta sat still and listened. He'd never spoken of his sister before. She'd only found out about her recently when she was suddenly _back_. Vesta shivered. To think that that person was her husband's own flesh and blood. That was her sister-in-law. The cruel, twisted genius with Holmes blue eyes. Chilling!

“You're afraid of her. I won't lie; I am, too. But still...impossible as this might sound, I do still love her.” Then, he shook himself. “Why are we talking about Eurus?!”

Gesturing to the back of the car, Vesta reminded him, “Camping stuff.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.”

“Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Where are we going?” When Mycroft didn't answer, Vesta looked through her new papers again, more closely this time. “Oh, look! They got me my old job back! Now we'll see if I can still cut it as a line cook after all this time.” She trusted her old crew. Line cooks as a rule knew better than to ask questions. Everyone has a less-than-gleaming past and it was simply best to mind one's own business.

“I'm sure you'll do fine. They were doubtlessly glad to hear you were alive and needed a job. I haven't even looked at mine yet. I suppose it was...kind of them to arrange other employment.”

“Do I want to know who 'they' are? I know you can't tell me what's going on, so I'll just have to trust you. Just...this sounds like it was all planned and provided for.”

Mycroft shrugged, “It wasn't entirely unexpected. All I can say is...it won't be forever. Of course, knowing them, that could mean it's only for thirty years. Oh, nobody's had it for that long. I remember...when one of us had this happen. When he came back...we'd almost forgotten about him. He was...well, I won't burden you with the details. He was fine. After he was back for a few weeks, he was fine,” he assured her, not altogether convincingly.

Vesta gave him a skeptical look, not sure what to make of what their future apparently held. They'd been thrust into destitution overnight, for an undetermined amount of time. All that they could do was face it as it came.

“All right, Vesta, the suspense is killing me. Read me my sheet.”

With a little rummaging, Vesta drew out her husband's forms with his name and employment record. She gave an involuntary groan and looked over at him sympathetically.

“What? What is it?”

“They've got you working at Mark's and Spencer.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Management?”

“Floor associate.”

Drawing a steadying breath with an ashen face, Mycroft gulped. “Floor associate? Good lord, they're trying to make me kill myself.”

“I worked retail before. It's horrible, but I think you'll be able to pull it off. So...this is it. I know better than to ask why,” Vesta grumbled.

“Yet it's still a reasonable thing to want to know. I'm sorry, I can't tell you. All right, so it seems we need a place to live that's relatively near our new workplaces.” Mycroft changed the subject with a grimace. His hands clenched the wheel anxiously as he pondered his future as a store clerk. “I've never worked retail. I've seen _Mr. Selfridge_ here and there, if that counts for anything.”

Vesta giggled in spite of herself. “It just might. Or better yet, _Are You Being Served_ ” She had to bite back her laughter at the thought of her haughty husband being reduced to a retail worker. How will he function without his wealth, his influence? Being reduced to a nobody was unfathomable. Even when he was a child, he'd been deemed _exceptional_ , and was treated accordingly. Unlike Sherlock, who shied away from the rank, wealth, and prestige he was born to, Mycroft wore it like one of his suits. Now he was going to have to _blend in_. He shuddered to himself.

 

As they drove, both of them felt the weight of this new venture. Vesta felt the added responsibility of taking care of her husband through all this. Mycroft quickly located both of their new workplaces. One thing that Vesta noted was that they were fairly close to major bus stops. Only having one car, this was important to establish.

There was a great deal of commotion when Vesta arrived at her new-old workplace. The chef, several servers, and two of the line cooks were still there from her previous run, and they all seemed happy to see her.

The sous-chef greeted her exuberantly. “Thank god you're back, Jen! We all thought you were dead! Do you know how many people we've had on your station since you left? You held it for three years! Nobody since has come close! Scares them all away, some've only lasted a couple months!”

The chef then took his turn, sauntering up to the returned line cook.“Welcome back, Jen. Now, what were we paying you when you left?” He pretended to think.

“Oh, come on, Pat! I'd better be making a bit more than I was then! It was ages ago! You won't have me for less than £7.25.”

“Because I like you, and we're hard up for a decent cook, I'll make it £7.30. We'll see you tomorrow evening at four,” he told her as he handed her a stack of uniforms and walked her out.

“Yes, Chef! Thank you, Chef!”

 

After Vesta finished getting situated, it was Mycroft's turn. He sat sulkily in the HR office at the department store where he'd be working. The manager gave him a stack of materials to read and sign, and a number of required safety videos to watch as part of the orientation. Two others sat with him, a man and a woman, both looked a good fifteen to twenty younger than he. They both had the same resigned look that suggested that they weren't looking forward to this any more than he was. 

The other new hires were dressed in their “first day of work” best of khaki slacks and their least-damaged shirts. He remembered Vesta's interview with him; she'd been dressed similarly and he'd rather cruelly remarked on it. There was a twinge of delayed-reaction remorse for that. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat, quite visibly out of place, dressed as smartly as he was. He wondered briefly if he should have left his jacket and waistcoat in the car, to be less conspicuous. The others, he'd noted, were sizing him up out of the corners of their eyes. He forced himself to concentrate on the papers in front of him instead, before it made him too self-conscious. When he got to the form pertaining to his wages, his eyes boggled. Unable to contain his disbelief, Mycroft softly exclaimed, “£7.50 an hour??” He looked at his companions, both of whom looked nowhere near as disturbed.

“Better than I got at the last place,” the woman muttered as she flipped her sheet over. The man nodded agreeably. Mycroft looked again, wondering if there was a missing 1 or 0 on his.

“Nicer place, they can afford it,” the man noted aloud. “I'll be able to turn the heating up a bit this winter.”

The woman smiled, “Or get the kids name-brand Cheerios once in a while.”

Mycroft went over the rest of his paperwork, feeling a twinge in his stomach. This was the life he was in for, where turning the heat on or non-store-brand cereal was a special treat.

“So, what's your story, Captain Peacock? No golden parachute for you?” the man asked.

Mycroft sighed. It wasn't even his first day of work and he'd already gotten himself a nickname. “Apparently not. Actually, I'm...in a small crisis, it seems. My wife and I...we're in witness protection. We lost everything. Rather suddenly, I might add.”

The woman looked up with a sympathetic expression. “No, really?! That's horrible! Well, good luck! Glad you could get a job lined up so quick. I'm Angie Schulz.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat, giving his alias for the first time. “Mike Musgrave.”

“What'd you do, bust up a mafia racket? Give information on a druglord? Witness a murder?” The man queried curiously, looking like any of these options were highly unlikely. Still, he stuck out his hand, “Joel Perkins. And if this is your first time working retail, Mike, brace yourself. You're going to see the dark, slimy underbelly of humanity up close.”

Mycroft smirked at that. “I once occupied a minor office in the British government.”

“Oh, no wonder they snapped you up. They needed more professional cat-herders,” Angie grinned. “You'll fit in just fine, I bet.”

“Just don't go round making enemies. Even without your suit, people will smell class on you. If you come off acting like you're better than all this, like the work's beneath you, it'll be right hard to get any favors from people,” Joel advised.

“Networking,” Angie summarized, tapping her head and pointing at Mycroft.

“It's like in _The Shawshank Redemption_ ,” Mycroft noted with a short groan. “Look, I...I promise I'll do my best. I'm not accustomed to this sort of thing, and you're right. I'll need all the help I can get.”

“How's your wife taking it? The...change?” Angie asked hesitantly.

Pondering over their morning, how efficiently Vesta had managed to wrangle all of the necessary duties and details, Mycroft let a comfortable smile flicker across his face. “I highly suspect that she'll be the one keeping us alive.”

“She the brains of the outfit, then?” Joel asked cordially. “I know what you mean. If it weren't for my Sandra, I don't know how we'd get on as well as we do, on what we make. Even when things are tight, we somehow manage.”

 

An hour later, Mycroft and Vesta drove around, looking for a possible place to call home. This time, Vesta took a turn driving, as she had a better idea of what to look for. Mycroft had to contain his disgust when she pulled up to a shabby block of flats with a For Rent sign prominently displayed.

“Here?”

Vesta shrugged, “We can probably afford it. There's parking, a laundry room, street lights...and it looks well kept-up.”

“How can you tell?”

“The pavement is smooth, no potholes, all of the lights over the doors are lit, that shows that maintenance is efficient. We just have to hope the price is right. We can't spend more than £1,000 a month on rent. If it's more than that, we have to look elsewhere.”

Mycroft nodded, surprised at how much she knew about this. Apartment-hunting seemed to be more her forté than his, and her experience with it showed. It made sense that she would lead the way. It was starting to chafe at him, though, that he was no longer in control. He hadn't gone so long without pulling strings or making arrangements in years. He'd gone from being in charge of everything to being in charge of nothing whatsoever. His own wife was more in control than he was. She gave him a smile and took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. His resentment misted away at that; she was only trying to help, like always. He couldn't begrudge her that, especially when she did it so well.

They entered the front office and a lady behind the desk looked up and acknowledged them. She had short, permed brown hair and thick glasses. She peered at them curiously. They looked rather out of place.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“We saw you had a vacancy. We're looking for a place to live,” Vesta informed her, clutching her umbrella with one hand and her husband's arm with the other.

“I don't think we have anything right for the likes of you. There are places on the other side of town that would be more suited to--”

“Oh, for gods' sakes, show us the flat!” Mycroft burst out in annoyance. “You don't know what our situation is, you don't know what would 'suit' us, the sign says that there's a vacancy so just toddle off and give us the grand tour.”

The woman looked from one to the other, affronted. Still, she rose from her seat and took up an enormous key ring. “Very well.”

“Actually, dear, we might be getting a big premature. There's the issue of our budget, remember?” Vesta reminded him. She turned back to the housing manager. “How much is rent?”

“£900 a month. First of every month, plus a security deposit for damages.”

Vesta lit up, stopping herself just in time from saying 'I'll take it!' “Sounds agreeable,” she says instead. “Let's see it.”

“Wait,” Mycroft protested, “Security deposit? Damages? You mean to charge us money for damaging the place before we even set foot in it?”

Vesta turned to him, flushed with embarrassment. “Myc...” she hissed with wide eyes. “It's to pay for cleaning the place after we've left, to do necessary maintenance, and to make sure the owner isn't screwed over by people who disappear in the night!”

The landlady nodded sharply at Vesta's explanation. “Deposit is £500. If everything checks out when you decide to move, you'll get it back.”

“Oh,” Mycroft uttered, then gave her broad 'after you' gesture. “Lead on.”

The woman led the way, sorting out which of the numerous keys was the right one. Each was tagged in a different color to keep them in some sort of order. “Each flat has an outdoor porch. We don't allow barbecues, laundry, or domesticated farm animals on them.” She paused as her prospective tenants tittered at the last remark. “Last year we had a man keeping chickens on his balcony. Another tried having beehives. No animals!”

“That won't be a problem,” Vesta assured her. “We don't even have any normal pets, let alone farm animals.”

She barely got the key in the lock and opened the door before Mycroft shoved his way in, took a quick glance around, and stormed out.

“No. No, it's unacceptable! £900 a month for a damn closet?! I refuse to live in such squalor!”

Vesta shouldered her way past him while he sulked on the steps. “Let me see. Oh, it's nice!” Mycroft started at her description. _Nice?!_ “Bit small, but it could be cozy. Carpets have been recently cleaned, that's good. There's a table and chairs.”

“The previous tenants left those.”

“Perfect.”

Mycroft slowly came back in as he looked around again. It was a one room bedsit. The tiny kitchen was partially walled off. He investigated that next. The refrigerator and cooker were old, but functioning. Both of them a drab olive green popular in the 1970s. The yellowed white paint on the cupboards was chipped and flaking off, and it was barely large enough for two people to stand in and have space to turn around. Vesta followed him in.

“It's adorable!” She cooed rapturously. “I love the distressed look, don't you, Myc? It looks so rustic and lived-in.” She gave him a pointed look, _be nice!_ He gave her an exasperated one in return, huffily crossing his arms with a tut. Still, he read the desperate look in her face, her entire posture. She wanted this place very much. It must be the best they could expect to find. He waved his hand with a nod, _fine...fine._

Next, they looked at the bathroom, which was in similar condition. Vesta was prepared for the disappointing size of the bathtub, having been admittedly spoiled by her large one. Still, it looked clean enough and there was a relatively new shower head installed.

“Where will we sleep?” Mycroft asked acidly, snapping his wife out of her irritating state of optimism.

“We'll make up a nest in the front room until we can get a bed. I packed some blankets,” she answered conservatively. “It'll be--”  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and cut her off. “Cozy, yes.” He turned to the leasing office lady with a grim expression. “We'll take it.”

Vesta gave a happy squeak and gave him a gentle shove. “All right, now you go down and sign for it. Here's the money for the first month and deposit,” she took her billfold out of her purse and counted out the money, handing it over. The gesture was more than a little emasculating, but he took it in good grace. 

He followed the woman back down to the leasing office with annoyed snort, still not convinced of things as his wife seemed to be. Still, he trusted her instincts and her abilities. 

The proceedings in the office took rather longer than Mycroft felt necessary. The landlady was adamant that he read the leasing contract in detail and then subjected him to a lengthy reiteration of the rules and regulations. The sun was creeping down to the horizon as he finished up. He stood, stretching his legs and back with a groan, unable to believe that a full twelve hours ago, his life was entirely different. He dragged himself back to the flat, dreading the thought of living in such a hovel. 

He opened the door and was greeted with an entirely different sight than what he was expecting: Vesta had been busy. She'd made their promised “nest” in the far end of the living room: a neat pile of thick folded blankets and pillows. She'd clearly understated it when she said she “packed a few blankets.” The drapes were pulled, admitting the last of the sunlight. A plywood plank propped up on bricks held a small collection of books, his reading glasses, and a kerosene lamp. Another set of pillows propped up against the wall made a makeshift couch. She'd draped a throw over a scavenged milk crate and set some candles on it. 

The room already looked...cozy. There were smells of cooking coming from the kitchen as music played softly from Vesta's tablet. The table was set. He heard her talking to herself as she cooked. The rattle of a pan lid, a surprised “Whoop! Uh..Oh well.” and the snap of a burner getting switched off. A rusty squeak as the oven door opened and shut again. Mycroft smiled cautiously. He decided to give her a few minutes to rectify the “Oh well” in the kitchen by peeking into the bathroom. 

The built-in nooks around the tub were filled with their bath supplies. A scented candle burned on the sink's counter top. A small wicker basket held Vesta's special soaps. If he had seen it like this originally, he wouldn't have been remotely impressed. Now, having seen what it had started out as, he marveled at Vesta's resourcefulness. She'd made use of everything, packed extremely well. She'd lost no time in making this tiny flat a home. He wasn't sure how long they would be living like this, but for the first time he thought that maybe they could do it. 

Mycroft returned to the kitchen and looked around silently. Vesta gave him a hopeful smile from over her shoulder, stirring a pot as he surveyed the room. She wasted no time in claiming this space as hers. _French copper and German steel_ , he thought admiringly, recognizing the shining pans as ones she'd taken from home. The knives, though, those were always hers. The few luxuries she took with her were calculated in their importance. She chose things that were the most useful, the highest quality, the hardest-wearing. It was, of course, a complete coincidence that they were also her most beautiful household possessions. 

“It's not much,” Vesta told him bracingly. She was clearly worried about what he thought of their fall. “I...” 

For the first time all day, he dropped his pompous facade. He gave her a hug from behind. “Don't apologize. This is on me. Have I told you that you're wonderful?” Vesta gave a self-deprecating snort. “I mean it. All this. I would never have imagined...I, ah, told my future coworkers about you. During orientation, I told them that I suspected you would be the one to keep us alive during all of this. I thought at the time I may have been...artfully exaggerating. Now, I see it's nothing short of the truth. You're incredible. Now, what's for dinner?” 

“We're in luck. There's an Aldi not too far from here. The rice, canned tomatoes and sauce I took from the house. Spices...” 

“Your private store? For me? I'm touched,” Mycroft smoothly remarked. She had taught him a lot about having a healthy relationship with food. He'd struggled from his younger years into adulthood with overindulgence. It had been his own drug of choice, his comfort, his escape. Then, he had swung just as dramatically in the other direction, eliminating any pleasure he used to get from eating. His cooks had prepared him sumptuous meals, but he'd shoved that to the back of his brain, ignoring the pleasure, resolved only to eat enough to keep alive. Then Vesta came along, and helped him find the middle ground. She'd given him his first affirmation of body positivity as well. He supposed her use of her special seasonings was her way of showing off. It was for her sake as well as his, that she could still perform to the best of her abilities, could still elevate humble ingredients with her own brand of magic. 

“Chicken thighs were on sale. We're going to have to be very careful from here on out, but tonight we're celebrating. I made some cornbread muffins, too. Even a little something for dessert.” 

“Celebrating,” Mycroft scoffed incredulously. “Celebrating our descent into poverty.” 

Vesta gave him a reproachful look as she began dishing up. “We have jobs, we have a roof over our heads, we have food in the pantry. We have a lot to be grateful for. We still have it better than most, even now. Even now, like this. I know it's not easy for--” 

Mycroft took the plates and brought them to the table. “Easy for what? Someone like me to understand? Born with a silver spoon and all that? You're right. This is going to be...difficult. You have an advantage, you know how to maneuver in this world. One of my new coworkers suggested that you were the brains of the outfit. I didn't correct him. Not just your brains, your heart. How many people could fall this far, this suddenly, and still be wise enough to be grateful...for what little they have left?” He sighed, sitting down as Vesta took her seat across from him. She poured them both a glass of not-quite chilled white wine. Mycroft turned the bottle to inspect the label, another Aldi find. 

“Well,” he intoned with a note of false cheer, “Here's to new beginnings.” 

Vesta clinked glasses with him with an encouraging smile. “To new beginnings. And darling...it won't be so bad. I'll take care of us.” Mycroft took a sip and winced. Vesta giggled and took a sip of hers. “I believe in America they would call this Two Buck Chuck." 

Mycroft coughed, took a drink of water, and a bite of the chicken and rice. “Mmm. That's good.” He took another sip of wine now. “Your Two Buck Chuck is...an acquired taste. Still, I think anything with a...good lord!” He read the label again. “13% alcohol content is something we both need tonight.” They continued their meal, Mycroft appeared to be genuinely enjoying it, for someone accustomed to having the best. 

“My compliments to the chef,” he remarked. 

“You haven't had dessert yet. Stay put. Have some more wine.” She rose and went to the oven and took out a square baking dish. She cut out a couple of pieces from it with a pleasantly surprised gasp and dusted it with icing sugar. With a triumphant grin, she brought her creation to the table, still steaming hot. “Phew! It's the first time I've tried this recipe, so I'm relieved that it turned out. I found it online. Cherry pudding.” 

Mycroft sank his fork into his portion and felt it fall away softly, exposing the sweet fruits within. He blew on it cautiously, confident enough in his wife's skills to doubt her. Why she was always so surprised when her dishes were a success was beyond him! He struggled to recall a time when something she made didn't turn out. If there ever was such an occasion, she disguised it so well that he didn't know the difference. 

Vesta didn't need him to tell her how good it was, she could tell by how eagerly he finished his piece. Then, he sat back in his chair, looking quite comfortable. “You know, my dear, I think you're right. Somehow...we're going to be fine.” 

“Say that after your first day of work. I hope it's not too awful,” she crooned sympathetically, reaching across the table for his hand. 

“And you. I hope you're still cut out to be a line cook after your cushy office jobs you've had in the meantime.” 

Vesta put the leftovers in the fridge and washed the dishes, feeling a little nervous about the prospect of her first day of work tomorrow. There would be a retraining period, of course, and hopefully the chef would give her time to get up to speed again. She remembered all of the horrible holidays where it seemed like everybody and their mother decided to go out to eat at the same time. 

That night, neither of them felt like talking. Their nerves were kicking in and, despite the optimistic attitude they'd both tried to cultivate throughout the bizarre day, the reality of the situation was setting in once again. Finally, they lay down in their “nest” to go to sleep. This proved to be tricky. They'd both been accustomed to sleeping in their own bed for so long, sharing a space like this didn't come naturally. The distressing day and the thought of their uncertain future prospects made Mycroft pricklier than ever, as much as the same things drove Vesta to desire his closeness for comfort. After a long while of shifting around, rolling over, pushing and shoving, they stopped kickboxing each other to death long enough to get comfortable enough to sleep. It would definitely take some getting used to. 

“It's not forever, it's just for now,” Vesta murmured as she dozed off. Mycroft in return reached over and squeezed her hand. 


	2. Culture Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the reality of their situation sets in, Mycroft and Vesta find they must learn to adapt to their new lives

Mycroft's alarm went off first. Vesta had the evening shift, and apparently would indefinitely. He was not so lucky as to get a set schedule. It was clear from his orientation that he would be “all over the place” as the managers all said. Today, he would be working the morning shift. For the first time since time immemorial, he decided not to wear a three-piece suit to work. After getting done in the shower, Mycroft only then wondered where their clothes and suitcases were. There was a coat closet, where he found most of his things hung up. A few more salvaged milk crates were repurposed as a set of “drawers” for folded items. She'd even color-coded them. Yellow ones for him, blue for her. Their suitcases turned out to reinforce the structure of their “couch”. He was once again impressed with her ingenuity.

He felt slightly naked in nothing but shirtsleeves and trousers. In a calculated effort to fit in, he even skipped wearing a tie. He wasn't sure what sort of work would be involved, but if one of the work requirements had involved asking how much he could lift, he safely assumed there would be a good deal of manual labor involved.

Vesta woke reluctantly, knowing she had a full night ahead of her so it would be unwise to be an early riser. Still, it was nice to get a glimpse of her husband on his first day.

“Good luck today, dear,” she murmured.

“You as well.”

 

It was midnight by the time Vesta got off work, another half an hour on the bus before she got home. It was her bad luck that her first night was on a Friday, and it was a killer. As they all walked out together at the end of the night, she'd earned a few slaps on the back and breathless “Welcome home”'s from the rest of the crew. The pantry cook even gave her a damaged piece of tiramisu to take home. There was a strangely satisfying feeling to getting a good ass-kicking on a weekend, it certainly got her heart racing again. She already felt worlds away from her old life as a shadowy PA.

Mycroft was already in bed when she got in. She changed out of her uniform and into her pjs and scooted in next to him. Instantly, he sprang away, recoiling. “Oh my god, Vesta, you smell to high heaven!”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Go take a shower! It's disgusting! I thought you worked in a restaurant, not a sewer!”

Vesta actually laughed at that, flinging her covers off. “Tell me about it. I expected birds to drop dead out of the sky as I passed.” Mycroft groaned. “All right, all right, I'm going.”

“Thank you,” he gasped, ruffling the covers to waft the pungent smell away. It was a foul mix of body odor and burning grease, mingled with some things Mycroft couldn't even name. 

She emerged a few minutes later and curled up on their cobbled together couch with her tablet.

“You can come back to bed now,” Mycroft informed her.

“I won't be able to do this every night. With my hair being this thick, I'll have to ration my shampoo. Maybe I should cut it shorter. Of course, not too short; if I do that, it'll just frizz out and I'd need even more product to keep it tame. I mean it, though, we're going to have to save every penny. Even getting a lucky break with the rent here, I set up the utilities and they won't be cheap. I'm going to try to keep our grocery budget at around £100 a month.”

“That's not much.”

“We can do it. Luckily, the car's paid for. That would be a drain on our funds, otherwise.”

“Ah, yes, another thing on our list of things to be thankful for. How charming.”

Vesta smiled cozily at him over the top of her tablet. “How was work?”

“Hell,” he grumbled. “Human beings are a disease. They're animals. Worse. And to think it's supposed to be a nice store. I can't imagine how people behave in other places.”

“It's usually rich bastards who make the most mess and trouble, as long as there's someone to clean up after them.” She stopped, realizing. “I know you never acted like that.”

Mycroft started at her casually classist remark, feeling a bit stung. It also made him realize that regardless of how long she'd been at his side, she never truly felt like she was one of his class. Her knee-jerk disgust at “rich bastards” and remarks that flowed so fluently from her tongue. And yet, even after one day of scurrying around after said “rich bastards”, he already felt apart from them.

“They treat us like machines, no thought or consideration,” he grumbled. “I don't think I acted like that before.”

“It's because you were raised right, and you're a decent person. You might have a whiff of snobbiness, a bit haughty, but you know better than to kick at people who are beneath you.”

That gave Mycroft something new to think about. It showed that in their time together, Vesta had been keeping a close watch on him, on his behavior, his attitude. He'd never considered snobbiness to be something to look out for. It made him relieved that he'd inadvertently measured up. “I thought of another thing to be grateful for,” he postulated, changing the subject before they started the next communist revolution. “We don't have children. So many of the people I work with have two or more children. I can't imagine supporting a family on what we make.”

“Me, neither. Good thing we never wanted kids.” Then, abruptly, she stood up. “I'm not remotely tired. I'm going to make some tea. Would you like some?”

Propping himself up on his elbow, Mycroft posed, “Hadn't we better ration that, as well?” Despite his teasing, he looked genuinely pleased that she thought to pack a few varieties of tea. He wondered how much she'd actually scavenged from the house while he was sulking in the shower that fateful morning. It already seemed like a lifetime ago.   
Taking that stab at her frugality in stride, Vesta went into the kitchen, translating his remark as a surly “yes, please” and turned on the kettle.

“It occurs to me, Vesta. You said that you got your old job back at the restaurant. I know it's been some time since you've been there, but how did it not raise any red flags? You were dead, erased.”

Vesta chuckled to herself, “Most places would be hard to explain that away, but my papers were all in order, so that's all that really mattered to them. I was dead, now I'm not, and I'm back and need a job just when they need a new cook. Let's just say the management is suffering from a convenient lack of curiosity. They know better than to ask irrelevant questions.”

“Is this normal behavior in a restaurant?”

“Pretty much,” the newly-instated line cook agreed. “I'm sure they'd hire Jim Moriarty, and not even ask if he was the guy they saw on the telly.”

She brought out two steaming cups of fragrant chamomile tea; just the thing after a long, hard day. She also brought them each a plate of yesterday's cherry pudding. Again, they fell into a comfortable silence. They quietly reflected on their new jobs, new lives, and all that went with it. It was a perfectly cozy midnight snack. Food was a perfect morale-booster. In its own way, it helped dismiss the troubles and hardships of the day. Whatever else they had to put up with, at least they'd been fed. Vesta ate her dessert, almost able to see it creep up on her spoiled husband, that there was something fundamentally uplifting about getting to eat at the end of the day. Without this, without so much as a snack, they would so easily fall to despair.

 

The next night, Vesta got home, stripped off half of her uniform, chucked it into the laundry basket, and headed for the fridge. It had been a long shift and she was hungry. Certain that there would be some chicken and rice left from their first day, her hopes were dashed rather harshly.

“I finished off that rice dish after work,” Mycroft confessed from the sofa. He looked over and flinched at his wife's bereft expression. He instantly knew that it was unspokenly wrong of him, but nothing had been expressly said... He waited for his reproach. None came, but none could have been worse than the dejected slam of the refrigerator door.

“It's all right,” she murmured defeatedly, standing in front of the closed door in her t-shirt and underwear. She crossed her arms in frustration.

With a guilty sigh, Mycroft rose and joined her in the kitchen. “No, it evidently isn't.”

 _There were two servings left, I measured them!_ Vesta thought to herself in frustration. The fair part of her brain overrode her feeling of ill-use, as she recalled that she hadn't shared this with her husband. “It is. You put in a long day, too. I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

Truth be told, he had felt a bit guilty at the time for not leaving any for his wife, but he _had_ put in a long day, he hadn't eaten lunch, and he was hungry...and he wasn't sure how much longer it would keep, unaccustomed as he was to basic food preparation. “I'm sorry. Look, I'll fix you something.” He then saw on the side of the fridge a list in Vesta's handwriting, itemizing their entire inventory and marking how many meal's worth it was good for. Every last cent and slice of bread was accounted for, and he just overdrew their balance. He sighed remorsefully.

“Don't. You worked all day. You shouldn't even still be awake.”

“And yet, here I am.”

Vesta chuckled at his offer, “Have you ever cooked before?” In the whole time she'd known him, she'd never seen him make anything more complicated than toast or a pot of tea.

Pulling a self-deprecating face, he confessed, “No, but I'm willing to learn.”

Shaking her head in bemusement, Vesta smiled bravely. “I'll be all right. I have that piece of tiramisu I snagged from work yesterday. I'll throw something in to cook low and slow while we're at work tomorrow.”

Still, guilt needled in. Mycroft felt like he still owed her something. He looked at her forlornly, mentally adding this to the list of failures that haunted him.

“We're only off by one meal. We can make it work. Stretch things out just a bit.” She remarked as she wolfed down her pilfered dessert.

Mycroft nodded, returning to the front room. “Mummy and Dad knew a bit about that. They were kids during the war. They never shook their habit of saving things. They never _imposed_ those habits on us, but...well, you know them. They still can't stand wastefulness. That's probably why they're still getting along so comfortably. They're not miserly by any stretch, but they both tend to put themselves last, even now.”

“How much do they know about...our situation?” Vesta wanted to know. She sat with him on their makeshift bed. They had come as close as anyone could to filling the hole in her life that her parents had left. Having them felt like having a real family again. 

“Nothing. For all they know, we could be dead. Nobody will tell them otherwise. We just...disappeared.” Even he sounded upset about this. Even amid all the crap he gave them, he still loved his parents and didn't want them to be hurt. “We can't do anything. Sherlock doesn't know, either.”

“God, this is going to kill them,” Vesta sighed. “This'll make it three for three,” she observed with a laugh. “All three of their kids have had their own deaths faked for them.”

Mycroft chuckled at that. Trust Vesta to catch onto that similarity! His poor parents. They were wonderful parents, really, with children doomed to break their hearts. “I just wish I could tell them that we're all right, but we have to completely disappear. If they knew we were alive, just...away, they'd want to be in contact.”

Vesta hugged her knees, “Would they? If you ask me, you three have done your work training them for this sort of eventuality. I think they could handle it, don't you? Especially if you told them how important radio silence was. Surely, we can be allowed one phone call, one 'Still alive, love you' before vanishing entirely.”

He thought about this, really considering it. “I...suppose. Just so they don't worry. I wouldn't want them to have to bury another one of us while we're still alive.”

“There you go,” Vesta gave him a friendly swat. “Give them my love, too, okay?”

“Of course. Knowing you're with me will be a load off of their minds. They know how capable you are.”

Vesta smiled at that praise. Somehow it felt like she was still performing her old job as his faithful assistant. “Work going all right?”

Mycroft mused to himself, making a face. “I suppose. I haven't made any enemies yet, at least. I think the others feel sorry for me. I told them we were in witness protection and lost everything. I figured that would explain what I was doing here when it's painfully obvious that I don't fit in with them. It may be why they're giving me a bit of slack, but I'm sure the training wheels will soon come off and I'll have the same expectations as everyone else. They warned me against...certain behaviors that would make me unpopular. Checking with the rest of the team before taking a break, asking about strangers' kids. Small talk.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I'll have to prove myself. I want them to see I'm pulling my weight. Keep them from resenting me.”

“Even with all the legwork?” Vesta grinned. Mycroft smiled back grimly. He reached out and drew a finger through her hair.

“I think it's time for bed.”

She nodded, slipping into her pjs. Tonight, Mycroft didn't make an issue of her unique post-work aroma. It would be like adding insult to injury after eating her share of the dinner. A small price to pay for the sake of decency. This time, he didn't find it as offensive. Perhaps, like her cheap wine, it was an acquired taste.

 

“Blitzing menswear, I repeat, calling for a blitz in menswear!” a manager named Cindy shouted, practically in Mycroft's ear. “We should get this out in 20 minutes, it's only three Z-racks! If we get it done in 20, I'll bring doughnuts to for the break room tomorrow!”

A boisterous cheer went up throughout the store as workers from other departments joined in the cleanup. After surviving his first week of work, Mycroft had already earned himself a reputation for having an excellent memory for where things went. Consequently, he'd acquired a few more nicknames besides his given alias and Captain Peacock. They called him Sonic, Rain Man, and Professor as well. At Vesta's suggestion, he took such titles as compliments. He had to remain constantly cautious of showing up his coworkers. Instead, they regarded him as an asset to the team, someone that they would be glad to be partnered with for a shift.

He grabbed fistfuls of hangers at a time, zooming along the sales floor to find where they belonged in a minute. With his acute memory and the rest of the team's effort, they had the area clear in 15 minutes. There was a celebratory round of applause that he almost felt inclined to join in. It was an odd feeling, the sense of belonging to a team. Not above, not below, a sense of common footing and purpose

“Sonic here did a whole Z-rack by himself!”

“Don't exaggerate,” Mycroft muttered, waving aside the praise, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself. As much as he could, he still preferred that his own hand be undetected. 

“All right, guys, good work, all of you,” Cindy exclaimed. “I won't forget my end of the deal. Breakfast is on me tomorrow.” Even Mycroft couldn't help but feel glad of that.

After the rapid cleanup of the menswear section, business returned to normal. Mycroft was even able to help a few affluent gentlemen select and purchase suits. He had a natural eye for men's fashion, for detail. It was the part of the job he enjoyed. Fortunately, he hadn't yet had to suffer the embarrassment of serving someone he used to know. That would have been humiliating. Still, he supposed it was only a matter of time. 

He then wandered over into the ladies' department, to help bail them out of their racks of fitting room rejects, and also to keep an eye out on the clearance sections for a possible gift for Vesta. Something pretty. He fixated on it. In her haste to pack up everything that was useful, he felt she neglected the beautiful, the fine. She deserved something beautiful. 

Angie looked over at him as he surveyed the department. “Are you just helping out, or does someone have a birthday coming up?”

“Genevieve...I want her to have something pretty. We left in such a hurry, and we can't go back...” he was surprised he was being so candid, surprised to hear his voice shake. “I wish she could have something pretty. Something nice.”

Another ladies' department worker, Kristina, overheard and sauntered over. “Well, just before Christmas we get our employee appreciation sale. You might be able to afford something then.”

“Well...I'll keep my eyes peeled, then,” he allowed. “I wonder if I'll still be around by Christmas.”

Kristina smirked, “They'll keep you. First off, you have a pulse. By the holiday rush, they'll take anyone. Secondly, you're good.”

“Mike!” Joel called over to him. “Gonna take your break?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, I suppose I could.” He checked his pocketwatch and snapped it closed. He'd been working for six hours without so much as a quick tea break. In a way, this was good; it would make the rest of the shift go by faster. He'd cultivated a professional relationship with young Joel Perkins. They worked well together. Joel was a good, patient mentor to the retail world, and was therefore a good contact to maintain.

“Hey, Mike! I'll keep an eye out for you, okay?” Angie offered. 

He went to the break room and clocked out. He had a lunch box in the employee fridge that Vesta had sitting out for him in the morning. He'd taken it without paying it any mind. He put the little covered glass dish in the microwave. It dinged, he took off the lid and groaned...

There had been one more portion of the chicken and rice, and she'd been saving it for him in the freezer. He hadn't made the same mistake since, and he'd been making honest efforts to contributing to the running of the home, but now guilt washed over him again. Of course she did that. Of course she measured and portioned and provided for every eventuality. He made a mental note to investigate the freezer when he got home. Vesta had gotten into the habit of putting together something simple for supper to cook low in the oven before leaving for work, so it would be ready by the time Mycroft got home. He wondered now, how many times she gave herself a smaller portion at dinner, to save some for him to take to work sometime in the future.

He finished his lunch and groaned again, drawing Joel's attention.

“What's the matter? Not good?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Quite the contrary. Genevieve is an excellent cook. She's...brilliant.” He paused with a faraway gaze, recalling that night when she went above and beyond the call of duty, saving the grand state dinner from utter disaster. “I've been an ass, though.”

Joel chuckled, shoving a quarter of a sandwich into his mouth. He swallowed and asked “How?”

“I've been a drain on our home resources.”

One more ambitious bite and Joel's sandwich was gone. “You tidy up at all?”

“Well, yes,” Mycroft confessed. “A bit. I'm naturally fastidious even if I'm not--” he cut himself off in embarrassment.

“You're not used to doing it yourself. You had staff, then, before?” Mycroft nodded, looking a little guilty. Joel didn't seem to be judging him for his former socioeconomic status, though. At least, he wasn't going to make an issue of it today. “Look, I'm sure your wife appreciates any effort you put in. If you really want to bowl her over, though, I say cook a meal yourself. That's what I do for Sandra if I screwed up. Little things make a lot of difference.”

Nodding again, Mycroft felt this to be true. “Yes, I'm beginning to see that. We found the tiniest little one-room flat, but...but Genevieve made it look like a home in the time it took to sign the lease. She's a magician.”

“So, what time does she get home usually?”

“After midnight.”

Joel winced, “Long day. So, here, you're not going to believe this, but try this, it's actually good.” He found a piece of scratch paper on the table and scribbled down a very basic recipe. “The best part is, it tastes better after midnight.” Mycroft looked at the paper, cocking an incredulous eyebrow. Joel laughed. “See, I knew you'd react like that. How much cash you got on you? You can get all you need for that for under a fiver. Even if money's tight, you can put food on the table, and it makes plenty.” Mycroft, still suspicious, stuck the paper in his pocket, thanked him, and went back to work.

On his way home from work, Mycroft made a detour to Aldi to grocery shop for the first time. He struggled to get a trolley, then gave up and decided he didn't need one with his brief shopping list. He didn't even need to check his wallet. He knew he had exactly £10 cash on him. A very generous shopper had given it to him as a tip just that afternoon for helping him with his wardrobe. 

As he ventured in, he was surprised. He hadn't been in an Aldi since he was a kid, and then it was pretty sparse. This one was full of a wide variety of goods. Even their store brand items looked more appealing than he remembered. After investigating the produce and weekly specials, filing away things for future reference, he picked up a box of plain butter crackers, a can of baked beans, an ominously named product called “luncheon meat”, and spaghetti rings. Feeling as though he might as well do the thing right, he picked up a £2 bottle of Winking Owl pinot noir and a French loaf. A fellow shopper helped him find a box to pack it in, since he didn't bring his own bag and he didn't want to have to buy one today.

The one downside to using a box instead of a regular shopping bag is he felt rather exposed to other peoples' gaze. He would have much rather have made off with his odd purchases as secretly and furtively as possible. He grimaced at the thought of what others might be thinking of him. Probably judging his eating habits as well as his cooking abilities in one fell swoop. This had better be as good as Joel says it is, or I'll have made a fool of myself for nothing!

Mycroft brought it all home and set everything out. He trusted Joel, but he knew he would have to dress this up somehow. There was a note from Vesta on the fridge door, saying there was braised bottom round and hassleback potatoes in the oven. She probably left for work about an hour ago, so it was just done. It made him all the more glad that he could surprise her in turn. He dished up some beef and potatoes, sat down, and let his brain finally shut off for a moment. This was his opportunity to unwind after the day's work. Vesta wouldn't be home for hours. Her day was just getting started.

A little before midnight, he got cracking. He opened the can of “luncheon meat” with a wrinkled nose and involuntary shudder. Still, his cohort sounded certain... He diced it, threw it in a frying pan to sear, and roughly cut up an onion and some garlic, adding them with a quick drizzle of olive oil. Mycroft marveled again at how good of a job Vesta had done in packing supplies. She had all of the essentials covered. For a man who had never cooked before, he had fairly good instincts and palate. It made him confident enough to expand on the recipe. Mycroft chuckled sleepily to himself as he stirred the pan's contents around, looking forward to telling his coworker about this in the morning. Next, he added the pasta rings and beans, letting them mingle evenly as the sauces reduced. He gave it a taste, thought about it, and added a good shake of dried basil, some chili flakes, and a splash of her pilfered balsamic vinegar. Another taste...he nodded approval. _Not bad_. Then, he poured it all into a baking pan, crushed a sleeve of crackers on top, and set it under the grill. The clock on the microwave read 12:28. Perfect!

 

The restaurant kitchen was hot and frantic. The first rush of customers started coming in at around 5pm and they hadn't let up all night. Vesta had been “back” for over a week now, and the novelty had long since worn off. She was unmistakably into the fire. Her printer kept churning out tickets faster than anyone could fill them, and before long, she was in the weeds with twenty tickets on her rail. She was getting frustrated and overwhelmed!

A server came up with a glass of water for her. Vesta gasped a grateful “Thank you” as she quickly filled orders. The whole kitchen was a shouting, clanging, cursing horde as they dealt with wave after wave of customers coming in. Tempers flared, threats were made, knives and blowtorches were brandished with curses at the front of the house staff, who were no more to blame than they were. The servers, in turn, stalked the front of the house, loathing the seating hosts soundly, placing all of the blame on them.

There was no satisfying “after” feeling to follow this shift. At the end of the night, everyone slunk away with heavy feet and slouched shoulders. “They won,” the grill cook grumbled, slapping Vesta across the shoulders. “Thanks for jumping in with me.”

“Sure thing, Cricket. Gah, now to go home, take a cold shower, and start drinking heavily.” That suggestion was met with a strangled cheer of agreement from the rest of the cooks.

“Oh, god, what a night,” she muttered to no one as she stood alone at the bus stop. The next one would be along in 20 minutes, so she sat on the bench and stretched her back. “Uhh...kill them all,” Vesta sighed vaguely, pulling out her phone and headphones, playing some good hard rock to work out her feelings. By the time the bus came, her spirits had lifted a bit. She actually got a seat, her shift was over, the chef had thanked them all for their hard work and promised that none of them were fired. In short, her night was turning around.

Vesta hopped off at her stop and trudged the rest of the way home. The first thing she noticed when she flung open the door was the cooking smells. Mycroft took a square baking dish out of the oven as she shut and locked the door behind her. He smiled a little guiltily at her baffled expression and glided into the dining room to pull out her chair. As was her custom after work, she tore off her uniform until all she had on was her t-shirt and underwear. Then, she headed straight to the bathroom to wash her hands and face. She was always so hot and felt coated with grime after a day on the line that it was sheer joy to take everything off the second she got home!

When she returned to the main room, her husband started in immediately. “Now, before you say anything, one of my coworkers shared this recipe with me, so if it's awful you can blame him. A customer gave me a generous tip and I bought all of the ingredients with my own money, so it didn't further throw off our inventory.”

“Mycroft,” Vesta sighed sadly, regretting making him feel so guilty, but touched that he felt inclined to make it up to her. He dished her up a plate, cut her a piece of bread, and poured two glasses of wine. He brought it over to the table and Vesta looked it over with a smile. Whatever it was was topped with a cracker crumb crust. It smelled perfectly homely and good. “Oh! Is this what I think it is?!”

“Spam and Beans Bolognese, according to my fellow menswear associate.”

Vesta giggled. “My dad used to make this when I was a kid! It looks good!” Neither of her parents were fantastic cooks, neither of them could understand where she got her innate cooking instincts, but she had fond memories of her dad's cobbled together dinners. Cowboy Surprise always sounded like something fun and special, and it wasn't until years later that she realized that it was just leftovers thrown together in a pan. It was nurturing, it was loving. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she found it so touching that her husband could recreate that feeling, with those same intentions.

Mycroft was taking a sip of wine and nearly choked on it. “Really?”

It was just what she needed at the end of her rough night. She cleaned her plate quickly, apparently enjoying it. “Darling, that takes me back,” Vesta sighed happily as she sopped up the last of the sauce with her bread. “That was just what the doctor ordered.” She popped it into her mouth and took a sip of wine.

Now very curious, Mycroft went to the pan and tasted a spoonful of the finished product himself. “You're right, that isn't half bad.” It was certainly not anything he'd had before, so he naturally experienced no childhood flashbacks as his wife had, and he knew for an absolute fact that once they were restored to their old lives, he would never have nostalgic cravings for this concoction, but still, it was...surprisingly okay.

“You're wonderful,” she purred. “Now, I'm going to hop in the shower and go to bed.”

Mycroft had been up all day, he'd made a real effort to still be awake when Vesta got home so he could surprise her. While she showered, he collapsed into their makeshift bed. He was nearly asleep when she snuggled in a few minutes later.

“Sorry if I still stink. Didn't wash my hair tonight,” she murmured apologetically. “I didn't want to wait for my hair to dry, and it saves water. I'll do it on my next day off.”

Her husband grunted in acknowledgment as he gave a tentative sniff. He smelled smoke and charred meat prominently. He'd grown accustomed to her usual after-work whiff she carried, these were new. “Hmm, congratulations on your promotion, by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“You worked on the grill tonight. According to the classic brigade system, that's a step up from sauté. Long time coming, if you ask me.”

Vesta smiled, pleased that her husband cared to learn even that much about the chain of command in a professional kitchen.“I helped out. We got killed tonight. I had to drop what I was doing and bail him out at the end. No survivors.” She heard a commiserating grumble of pity at that, and the next sound she heard was Mycroft's snoring. The familiar, almost rhythmic noise settled her, and soon she was asleep as well.

 

Despite his erratic schedule, their life was able to fall into some sort of pattern. He might be all over the place, but at least Vesta's schedule was concrete. Wednesday and Thursday were her allotted days off, and that was when she typically did the laundry. One Wednesday morning as she was sorting clothes, she noticed Mycroft was short several socks. This struck her as odd for a moment, then she went to the trash basket in the bathroom. Sure enough, a handful of black socks lay in the thankfully mostly-empty wicker basket. She took them out, shook off the bits of tissue and dental floss, and took them into the living room.

Vesta rummaged in her big purse and pulled out her sewing kit. She looked the socks over. There were several holes in the toes and heels. She tutted, wondering how many socks he threw away at home. It came automatically to her mind how much new socks would cost. These wouldn't be cheap to replace, either. These were fine merino, and she was certain that Mycroft wouldn't settle for anything else. Not if it could be helped, anyway. Socks were admittedly one of her favorite luxury items, too. Like the comfortable knowledge of a decent meal in one's future, having a good pair of socks was a simple pleasure.

When Mycroft got home that evening, he found his laundry had been washed and folded...then he counted the socks! “Vesta!”

She smiled at him from the kitchen where she had supper cooking. She was stretching the leftover beef by tossing it in with egg noodles and a cream—in this case milk—based sauce. “I hope you like beef stroganoff. I can make this last for four more meals this way!”

He would not be put off. He scooped up the socks and waved them in the air to get her attention. “What goes on here? I threw these away! They're full of holes!”

“ _Were_ full of holes,” Vesta corrected, looking quite proud of herself. “I mended them for you.”

Mycroft gave her a look that suggested that this was nigh on sorcery! “You...mended my socks?”

She nodded, still stirring the pot and humming to herself. “They were perfectly good socks, Myc. It would be a pity to throw them away and they'd be expensive to replace, so I fixed them.”

He was quiet for a while as he unfolded and examined them. He could see where she'd sewn up the torn places, but only just. This added another piece of data to their situation: the importance of making their possessions last, because they can't afford to just buy new ones. Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke at last, “I lost a button off my shirt today. Can you fix that as well?”

Vesta gave a soft chuckle at that. His sincere tone was simply adorable! “Better than that, I'll show you.”

 

“God, I'd hoped we'd be sent back home by now,” Mycroft grumbled to himself as he drove to work at 4:30am. They had been “disappeared” for just over a month. It was now October, the lead-up to the Christmas season was underway, and the schedule had become even more erratic. A veritable gang war had begun brewing between Marks & Spencer and Harrod's, even Mycroft found his hackles raising at the mention of the “enemy”. Funny how easily one is taught to hate. He'd been working harder than he'd ever worked in his life, forcing himself to bear up under the job's demands or find himself shown the door or earning his coworkers' contempt. 

After years of working invisibly, to be thrust out into the open as he had was patently uncomfortable. One of the numerous perks of his old job in his old life was only people whom he specifically chose would ever even see him. He shrank from the bright, fluorescent lights of _visibility_. It made him feel horribly exposed and vulnerable. Still, making 20p per hour more than his wife, that technically made Mycroft the breadwinner of the household, so he gave himself that added sense of duty. 

Today he was scheduled to be working on the loading dock, bringing in the merchandise from the morning truck and putting it away. Despite the early hour, this shift was an envied position by many. First people in were the first people out, with theoretically the rest of the day to spend at one's leisure. As if everyone who worked that shift didn't go straight home and back to bed, Mycroft grumbled to himself. Having the early shift was especially bad for him. The walls at home didn't do much to muffle the noise. He'd come to know the different sounds of their various neighbors; voices, cars starting, doors slamming. Vesta slept like the dead. Mycroft, who was at times plagued by insomnia, had a much harder time adapting.

 

“Last one!” Someone called out and everyone let out an appreciative sound. Mycroft bent and stretched his aching back, shaking out his arms and shoulders after a day of repetitive motions. The last thing he needed was some variation of carpal tunnel syndrome. Mycroft looked around the dusty loading dock with sleepy eyes and brain. His gaze fell on a stack of wooden pallets, an idea formed...

“Excuse me, but how much would it be to take one of these home with me?”

Brenda, the dock lead, gave him a sweeping gesture of permission and a smile. “Help yourself! You didn't strike me as the crafty type, but I've seen videos online of people making all kinds of things out of these. Take as many as you like.”

“Oh, good, thank you,” he replied with a tone of surprise. He had expected to have to pay for them!

“Need help getting them home? I've got a van, I can help you drop them off.”

Mycroft flinched again in surprise. “Again, thank you. Oh, she's going to be so surprised! How about some of these boxes?” He nudged a stack of flattened boxes with his foot. He had been reading up at the break table!

“Sure. Sounds like you have quite the project planned. Something for your wife?” Together they started carrying everything to their respective vehicles.

“Yes. After all she's done for the past few weeks to keep us as afloat as we have been, I feel I owe her something special.”

Brenda smiled again. It was like her face was permanently built for it. “You're sure a sweetheart. I wish my husband cared that much.” Mycroft scoffed at that. No one in his old life would have ever called him a sweetheart.

Once their work day was over, Mycroft drove back home, making sure Brenda was following close behind. He'd taken the pile of flattened boxes, and she successfully wedged two loading pallets into her van and lashed one to the roof. By the time they reached his domicile and started carrying their goods up the stairs, Mycroft was practically giddy with anticipation. Brenda was getting a boost just from her colleague's enthusiasm! He unlocked the door and let them in,

“So where do you want these?” She asked, taking in the man's sparse quarters in a single glance. Then she saw the pile of blankets on the floor, looked at the wooden frames, and her face lit up in realization! “You're making a bed! You're the smartest man I know! Neat!”

Mycroft had been bracing himself for judgment, for pity. This was not the reaction he was expecting. “Bit pathetic, isn't it, though?”

“I think it's brilliant,” Brenda told him firmly. “What's the third one for, a headboard?”

“I was thinking a wardrobe. If I could acquire one more, we could make something like a dressing screen.”

“I'll snag one tomorrow and run it by. That's a great idea! Then you'd both have a spot to hang your clothes and it wouldn't be just out there like a coat rail in the middle of the room. If you had any artistic leanings, you could even paint it.”

It didn't take long for them to situate the pallets, top them with a makeshift mattress of tightly-bound flattened boxes, and make it up with the bedding.

Once Brenda was gone, Mycroft stood back to admire their work. He let out a satisfied sigh...then looked at the frame that stood propped against the wall. After first making sure they had plenty on hand, he doused a paper towel with olive oil and rubbed it over the wood. It would serve as a temporary finish until he could do a better job. He made a mental note to pick up a bar of beeswax next time he was shopping. After hanging Vesta's clothes on the back of it, he envisioned getting a full-length mirror added to it as well. It was now 2:30pm, and, Mycroft thought quite reasonably, time to take a nap. For a split-second, it seemed odd that Vesta wasn't still at home, then he figured she had to catch an earlier bus to get to work on time. He'd have to wait for another ten hours before Vesta was back, to show off. Since he had such an early shift, they had both agreed that he could “forage” on his own for supper. There were leftovers, and since they both just got paid, they had a fairly full pantry. He put together a simple meal of baked beans on toast with a fried egg and felt fairly self-sufficient about it!

Mycroft lay down on the new bed, an involuntary smile sliding up his face. This would be so much better than sleeping on the floor! Despite the fact that he was sleeping on literal garbage, he remained pleased with himself.

Vesta came home hours later. She stopped short in the entryway with a look of surprise. Candles were lit, a Hans Zimmer score was playing from her tablet...and there lay her husband in bed. A bed! A loading pallet was angled into the room, some boards were stuck between the gaps to make shelves on which he'd laid out their various accessories. One shelf for his comb, watch, and a few folded ties. Hers had her hair ties, tablet, her pink silk scarf, and favorite lilac body spray. The bottom board had a large knothole in it on either side, through which he stuck their umbrellas.

Mycroft observed her reaction with growing satisfaction. He gave up the charade of being asleep and sat up. “Surprise,” he intoned; his voice carried its old cocky ring to it once more.

“You are an absolute marvel,” Vesta pronounced.

“Pfft, hardly,” he dismissed, still obviously glowing with her praise. “I got the pallets from work. They give them away. It's just junk, really.” When he explained it out loud, it sobered him. “It's only boxes, Vesta, nothing to make a fuss over.”

Vesta tittered, “I still think it's brilliant. You even slotted our shoes into the gap underneath! That was very resourceful of you. This will sure be better than sleeping on the floor, and the boxes should make a decent enough mattress.” She stripped out of her work clothes, spritzed herself with her body spray and slipped into her pjs. “I'll try not to make too much noise. You try and get back to sleep. Thank you so much for all of this. It makes it feel a bit more civilized.”

“Yes, I agree. I'm glad you're pleased, dear. Good night.”

She made herself some tea and flipped through her tablet for a good book to settle into. It wasn't long before her brain caught up to her body with how tired she was. By three o'clock, she slid into bed, sighing contentedly.


	3. Breaking, Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's despair and hope...

The next day was Wednesday, Vesta's usual day off. Mycroft heard her sigh of relief as she briefly woke up to his alarm. She draped herself against him and kissed the back of his neck. Unfortunately, he had to get up and going. It was bound to be a busy day.

When he finally got home at six o'clock, the former British Government looked like he'd been pulled through a hedge backwards. He was muttering nonsensically under his breath. His hair was frazzled and his eyes were glazed. He stared at his wife as she stood at the kitchen sink, barely processing what he was looking at.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demanded, staggering in, slamming the door.

Vesta started guiltily, flushing with embarrassment. It took her a moment to gather herself to explain. She wrung out the shirt she had been scrubbing in the sink. Several articles of clothing hung on a folding drying rack by the heat vent. Four of her work shirts, a pair of her chef pants, and a row of socks and underwear. There was a small pile of black chef coats on the floor, waiting to be washed and hung.

“You...” He took in everything: the bar of soap in her hand, the improvised washboard she made of the grill pan...With a shake of his head, he peeked in the closet laundry basket. It was empty. He looked completely bemused. “You washed my clothes at the laundry, and you're doing your own in the sink. Why?” He cut her off mid-shrug. “Is it that bad? Are we...?” He petered out, feeling hopeless about their situation for the first time.

“We're hanging in there. We're doing...okay, but I like to save whenever I can. Besides, you have more clothes than I do, so it makes sense. I washed the sheets in the laundry room, too.”

Mycroft took in her answer with a sad look. It reminded him once more that he had essentially done this to her, and here she was, sacrificing her own comfort and convenience for his. Whatever she said about them doing okay, they must not be if £4 looked like money worth saving. He crept into the kitchen, placed his hands on Vesta's shoulders, and kissed her forehead. “I'm sorry, my dear. I'm sorry I brought you to this.”

“You didn't bring me anywhere. You gave me the option, I chose to come with you.” There was a pause. “I miss you. For two years we were practically joined at the hip, now we only see each other for a minute before and a minute after work.” Her voice was tinged with loss and loneliness; she missed her teammate. She missed being his immediate line of defense.

“Yes, I know. I feel the same way,” Mycroft agreed glumly. He had found himself missing her throughout the day; her company was part of his routine, and now that was gone.

Vesta threw her jackets into the water, soaped them up and gave them a few prods before drying off her hands and letting them soak. She switched on the tea kettle to restore them both. “How as work? You look ghastly! Here, sit down before you fall down, dear, and I'll fix you some tea. Dinner should be ready in half an hour. Turkey mince was on special this week, so I'm making meatballs.” The kettle seemed to know its hour of need was at hand, and it came to a boil quickly. For something like this, Vesta knew that they would need more than a cup each, so she actually splurged and made a whole pot. 

With a wan smile, Mycroft obeyed, rubbing a hand over his face and scratching his messed-up hair. “I was in the shoes department today.”

“Ugh!” Vesta cried out in disgusted sympathy. “Oh my god, how in the world did you survive? And the new advertisement just went out today, too. You must've been killed!”

Mycroft flinched, surprised that Vesta knew that quickly that the new ads always went out on Wednesdays. It showed him how aware of him she still was. She was no longer his official P.A., but it was still in her to keep tabs on his schedule. “It seems no good deed goes unpunished. They're...utilizing an asset that they were fortunate enough to acquire. It seems I've developed a reputation for having a good memory and consequently organization.” Words failed him, he ran his hands over his hair again, shuddering. They both sank into silence while the tea steeped. Once it was ready, Vesta scooped out the brewing basket and set it aside to use again later. Yet another habit of frugality to make the most of all that they had. She poured them each a cup and then stood back, sensing her husband needed space. Crowding him when he was already this frazzled would only make him even more ill at ease

“By the way, dear, who did they find to replace you?” Vesta queried curiously. “Since the country has failed to fall to ruin, I'd say whoever it is is doing a decent enough job.”

He leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. His eyes closed as he felt the beverage creep through his veins. “ _They_ didn't find anyone to replace me. I did. I called in Agent Thames.” He sounded wholly satisfied with that decision. There were times since their exile that that was the only thought that helped him sleep at night.

Vesta just nodded. She recognized the name from him mentioning it in passing at work, but it was assumed that Agent Thames was retired or at least on minimal operative duty. Whoever it was must have been the only one Mycroft would trust to keep things going in his absence.

Silence. It drew out ominously. Then, somehow Vesta could tell something broke in her husband.

“I can't do this,” he murmured, staring unseeing ahead. “I...I can't. This can't be my life. I want to go home.”

“So do I,” Vesta agreed, “I know I can't cut it as a line cook again after all this time, not really. I'm too old for this kind of work.”

Mycroft pushed his empty cup away and shook his head, his blank face slowly growing angry. “This _can't_ be my _life_!” he shouted, smacking the table with his hand, looking around the flat as though everything in it had done him a personal wrong. He stood, gesturing widely. “I can't live like this! I don't see how anyone can stand it! It's inhuman! It's...undignified! Look at us! Living in a bloody shoe box, going stir-crazy, our furniture is made of garbage! You're washing your clothes in the sink just to save a few miserable quid!”

He paced, gesturing wildly and emphatically, slapping one hand against another. “And you! Chirping away happily about how much we have to be _grateful_ for!” He snarled the word grateful as though it were a filthy curse. Vesta flinched, she hadn't expected to be included as a grievance. “So cheerful, so optimistic! Look at us, we're not starving in the streets! Aren't we lucky?! In a tiny little bedsit! Working menial jobs for slave's wages, no consideration, we might as well be machines for all they care! We eat cheap crap and drink 'wine' that might as well be lighter fluid for dinner each night, every penny and every mouthful accounted for and rationed! I can't take it! I'm sure if we were out on the street, you'd find something to be grateful for then, too! Whatever odd scraps or spare change that happened our way that day would be a blessing to you!” Mycroft was raving, he'd finally snapped. He actually looked close to tears. His face was getting red, and so were his eyes. He gestured around their modest home, then turned to face his wife with bleary, mad eyes. “Don't tell me you lived like this. You can't have! Don't tell me that _this_ is where you came from. That this was your life before...before you came to work for me.”

Vesta, still stinging from his slights against her housekeeping skills and her optimism, shook her head. “No, I didn't.”

“Good, I'd hate to think of you--”

“I couldn't afford a place this nice. Not on my wages.”

Mycroft blinked. He looked like his brain was shooting 'Does Not Compute' messages. “Wh...what??”

“I mean, it was a bit bigger, it had a separate bedroom from the rest of the flat, but it wasn't as well-kept. My old landlady was a slumlord. The building hadn't been properly maintained since Thatcher was in office. This might be a tiny bedsit, but it's a good deal nicer than my old flat. You noted that I'd been cold and sick. She's why. There was no insulation, there were cracks between the windows and the windowsills, carpets were threadbare...I had the worst flu I'd ever had that year. This place is well kept-up. This is plush! The walls and roof actually keep out the wind and rain! And it's safe, too! Did you notice? There haven't been any disturbances or break-ins, or robberies since we've been here. It's _nice!_ ”

Tears fell. Mycroft heaved a gasping sob as he sat back down. “You meant it, then?” Vesta nodded silently. He shook his head and allowed his eyes to close. He brought a hand up to his face. “That was the voice of experience. When we were first shown this place.” He clutched his head in his hands as he wept for both of them. “I knew you and I were different. I never realized how different, or how deeply it went. God, it's not fair. We break our backs working for the people in charge and...they don't even care...Bloody rich bastards!” He didn't say anything for a while. That brief explosion had utterly exhausted him. “I didn't mean what I said about your cooking. You're as good as ever, You'd have to be. I'm sorry...so sorry I said that. I suppose your optimism is a coping mechanism; if you remind yourself of what you have, you can _almost_ not miss what you don't.”

“You...were out of line,” she growled seriously. Vesta was hurt by those remarks and was not about to let them slide and pretend it was all right. For the first time since she met him, she gave him a distrustful look, like she wasn't sure where she stood. Vesta had said nothing to suggest she accepted his apology, let alone forgave him. Knowing he held her in contempt like that hurt. “Perhaps I had better go back and assist Agent Thames if that's all you think of me. Perhaps she'd be glad to have me. I could just let you take care of yourself, fix your own meals without worrying about sharing with me.”

Mycroft jumped to his feet again; he hadn't made her this dangerous mix of angry and sad before. “I didn't mean it! I was upset. You're an excellent cook--”

“Damn right I am!” she blazed. “And while you're wallowing in self-pity, I need all the fake hope I can scrounge up! I couldn't do this otherwise! So you can keep all of your lip-service thanks you throw at me if this is what you really think! I'm doing the best I can with what we have. It's not easy! I get home each night and I'm wiped out and I still manage to take care of us! And most of the time I truly want to, it's what I do, but it's still not good enough apparently! No, I can't make five-course French dinners for us like we'd get at home, It takes days of planning and prepping and I just don't have the time or energy or resources anymore. And it hurts me, too! I hate the rationing as much as you do. It's demoralizing, but it's necessary. I wish I could do more. I thought I've been managing all right with 'cheap crap' but if you think you can do better, be my guest!”

They stared each other down. This was their first actual argument with each other. They were so used to being always on each other's side that it took them both by surprise. “I was out of line,” Mycroft bluntly agreed. “That was horrible of me to say. I'm sorry. Truly. I do appreciate you. I've told you a hundred times since this whole awful business began. I mean that. I...I need your hope, too, dear. Your organization and home management are impeccable...admirable. We've never gone hungry. We might not have had all we've wanted, but we've had enough. I'm a useless, spoiled brat and I know it. I wouldn't last one day here on my own.”

Vesta was still quiet, still fighting tears. She had been in the act of preparing dinner when he reached his remark about her 'cheap crap'. It hadn't been easy, and she'd been trying to make it look easy. Managing the household expenses, preparing meals, keeping morale up as well as she could. That on top of an already physically, mentally, and emotionally demanding job! She held onto her anger while she absorbed his apology. It had a ring of truth in it; she believed that he didn't really think so little of her efforts. He was frustrated, angry, tired...and those qualities made him cruel. She had one final shot to make.

“Did you ever speak to Anthea like that?” She asked coolly.

Mycroft sighed heavily. He deserved that. He'd hit her below the belt, it was only fair that she would get a turn. “Once. While Sherlock was undercover. I'm just glad I was able to make it right with her before...” he tapered off, glancing down at his watch, rubbing his thumb absently over the purple jewel on its fob.

Vesta nodded. He had been under duress then, too. “I'm sorry this is hurting you so badly. It's no fun for me, either. I put a brave face on, but...it's been hard.” She paused, thinking. “I accept your apology.”

Not missing the fact that there was no mention of forgiveness, he wouldn't expect that just yet. He'd hit her where she lived, in more ways than one. “Thank you.”

Something sizzled on the stove. Oil bubbled and hissed. Something smelled good...She'd gone back to making dinner, jabbing the pans a little more emphatically than she ordinarily would have. “I do wish I could make us meals like we had back home. Something special.” Mycroft's birthday was coming up. She had spent the last few weeks scouring the grocery ads for sales to cobble something together that would be a bump up from what they'd been having as of late. She'd playfully toyed with the idea of recreating her infamous quail dish, hoping that her substitutes wouldn't be too disappointing. Already, the menu in her head was blurbling to life, even amid her anger. Cooking and menu-planning were therapy for her.

Mycroft cringed. He hadn't thought she would take his slight so personally. They were thoughtless words, blurted out in anger. He dealt her the worst insult imaginable without even trying, now she was going to spend the near future doubting and defending herself. 

“I was blowing hot air, Vesta. I brag about you at work, you know.”

This softened her a bit; she knew how much he hated talking to people. That he would go out of his way to have an actual conversation with multiple people, and to bring her up multiple times meant a great deal. “Do you?”

“I'm sure it's gotten around to everyone by now how wonderful I think you are.”

Vesta turned to face him, seeing the truth in his face. He looked perfectly remorseful. She gave him a small smile, then opened a drawer. After a bit of rummaging, she shut it and handed him a cigarette. “Here. Go outside, cool off. I'll finish dinner and do the same. Then, when you come back in, you might be in for a surprise.”

Mycroft let out a soft groan of relief, taking this token of goodwill from his wife, his rare indulgence. He hadn't bought any since their ordeal began, he didn't even know she had brought any along. He imagined she had been sitting on it for all this time in case of an emergency. She handed him his lighter as well, effectively shooing him out.

He walked out into the brisk dusk, it was getting darker earlier every night. He stared at the cigarette for a moment, pondering guiltily. She had seriously planned for everything. Vesta took better care of him than he ever could himself. He lit up and took a drag, savoring it. It was low tar, his preferred kind. He simply couldn't stand Sherlock's full-strength ones! Another man stood on the pavement with him, smoking as well.

“You live here?” the stranger asked.

“Yes. In 2D,” he gestured up the stairs. He made a mental check mark of being able to put a face to the voice he'd grown accustomed to hearing around the building.

“Don't remember seeing you out here before,” the stranger observed, flicking ash into the nearby planter full of sand.

Mycroft took another puff, “I don't usually smoke. I needed it tonight.” He decided to take it slowly, to make it last as long as he could. As he enjoyed his cigarette, he smiled to himself, remembering how frantically he packed that fateful day. He hadn't managed to bring much more than some clothes, toiletries, and his laptop. Vesta had thought of everything! Right down to an emergency cigarette.  
“Probably a Girl Guide,” he muttered aloud, flicking his ash.

“Girl Guide?” his neighbor asked suddenly.

Mycroft chuckled shortly, “My wife. She thinks of everything. 'Be prepared' and all that. We could probably survive a week on what she packs in her purse.” The other man nodded and went back inside. Mycroft stayed out a bit longer. Next, he felt his thoughts drift to Sherlock, remembering those rare moments when they weren't butting heads, simply having a smoke together. Those were the times that stoked his brotherly affection for the recalcitrant man. He missed him...and his parents...he even missed Eurus. He'd done everything he could for them, everything...and it still wasn't enough. He couldn't even do enough in his own household. Another failure. 

After finishing the very last millimeter of his cigarette, he stubbed it out in the ashtray. He didn't go back up right away, though. He stood out on the walk, gazing at the stars, letting his frayed mind drift peacefully. Away from the hectic atmosphere at work, away from the spartan quarters of his home, he breathed the cool night air for a moment. _We may be in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Oscar Wilde_. Then, catching a chill, he decided to go back in.

When he reached his door, there was a frame hung on the nail under the peephole. It was an understated plastic picture frame, surrounding beautifully hand-drawn words: Absolute Silence. It struck something in him, another wave of homesickness. Drawing a steadying breath, Mycroft opened the door. Vesta grinned at him from the dining room. She'd made a few changes...

Their bed had been improvised into a futon, with the comforter turned to the other side to show deep red satin, pillows were plumped underneath to make a comfortable seat. Vesta had draped their makeshift side table with a cream colored sheet and set a few of his favorite books in prominence, and a crystal brandy glass stood filled next to it. On their milk crate end table, another frame sat perched, bearing the words “The Diogenes Club”. An improvised tiered platter made by stacking plates on overturned glasses stood, arrayed with arancini and tomato sauce. On the second tier were strawberry jam sandwiches cut into dainty triangles. Mycroft dipped a rice ball and bit it in half. He never would have guessed they could be made with plain long-grain white rice instead of fancier varieties. _Cheap crap_ indeed, he scolded himself for his choice of words. A little dab of cheese oozed out of it and he quickly finished it off.

He sat down and plucked up the glass. He gave it a swirl and a sniff, amazed that this was real! It was his from back home! He remembered his little flask from the back of the car, _Ah yes, that's where she must have gotten this!_ As with the cigarette, knowing that there wasn't much made it all the more precious. Mycroft sipped mindfully, letting it flow over his tongue, letting it warm him inside and out.

“Thank you,” he signed, obeying the club rules even in this modest extension. Vesta smiled. He held up a finger, fished around in his back pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper with the day's planogram on it. He folded it and wrote in a felt-tip marker “Ladies welcome” and set it by the other sign.

Vesta looked touched at the inclusion. The real Diogenes Club was gentlemen-only as a rule. She decided that if she was going to join in, she would do it right. She took down another crystal glass and extracted her stashed bottle of port from the kitchen cupboard.

“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she signed, enjoying their play. They both sat quietly, indulging themselves in a taste of luxury before returning to the real world.

 

Still, their situation continued. If Mycroft hadn't given Vesta a clue as to how long they might be on the shelf like this, she would have despaired that they would never go back to their old lives. Each day it became more natural to shove that particular hope into the backs of their brains, though. Focusing on today was the only way to survive. The drab, grey autumn became drab, grey winter, and Christmas loomed ever closer. Mycroft had been putting in long weeks at the store, ten, twelve days in a row without a day off. Closing late some nights only to open again the next dark and dreary morning. Morale was nonexistent, the workload had tripled, and tempers were short. No amount of compensation could raise their spirits. Then, like a bomb dropping, it was Black Friday. A custom Britain had acquired from their American cousins, and was despised by all sane people. In his younger days, Mycroft had been a field agent, dealing in life and death scenarios, he'd found himself in an actual battlefield, dodging bullets and cowering in the dirt. Black Friday brought those memories back to the surface. It was a whirlwind; the teeming, screaming hordes of humanity. Fighting and clawing and trampling each other for material goods. It was like a scene from the apocalypse. He and his team had spent painstaking hours making the sales floor tidy and stocked before the doors were unlocked. All they could do was stand by in horror as their hard work was undone within seconds. A few actually broke down in tears. Mycroft managed his fury and stress levels by popping sheets of bubble wrap and glowering at people who left fitting rooms a mess. He made it a mental exercise to imagine what ruin he would wreak upon these miscreants if he was in his old position of power.

Halfway through the day, Mycroft trudged out of menswear to investigate the damage elsewhere. He'd shoved things into place as well as these vermin deserved, he thought bleakly. He saw Kristina in the ladies' department sobbing openly, hunkered under a clothes rack that was groaning with clothes to be hung up and put away. He bit his pale lips. “Why don't we just burn it all down?” he asked kindly.

Kristina looked up at him and gave a hysterical shriek of laughter. “I can make a hairspray flamethrower.”

“You'd get along with my wife,” he chuckled, starting at the unnatural sound of cracked mirth.

The one plus side to that awful day was that the management bought food for the break table. Once again, Mycroft was reminded what an instant morale-booster food could be. They'd bought party-sized sub sandwiches, pizza, and cupcakes. Bottles of drinks sat in iced containers. While he took his lunch break, others came and sat with him. His coworkers slumped down, yet afforded each other grim pats on the back and murmured words of encouragement. The managers and supervisors came as well, having been pulled from their usual duties to work the registers or the floor alongside the peons.

“We're almost there,” Cindy said in a blank, hollow voice. She'd just come in from a fitting room with no less than ninety articles of clothing, all turned inside out and tied together to spite whoever had to clean it. 

“God, I thought this was supposed to be a nice store,” Mycroft muttered as he ate. He normally never touched fizzy drinks because of their sugar content, still he drank one today. He looked around at his peers. They all looked half-dead with exhaustion and despair. “Humans...” he grumbled scornfully. That one word made him break into a hysterical laugh, remembering that it was that one word that sealed Vesta's fate to work for him, how he _knew_ that they would get along so splendidly. He giggled over this because if he didn't, he'd be crying.

“People...people are a plague,” Joel groaned with a curse.

How he made it through the rest of his shift, Mycroft never could remember. As he rode the bus home, his brain was still firing off error messages. He'd never worked so hard in his life. He no longer knew or cared what time it was, but somehow they had all left the store in reasonably decent shape. They wouldn't pass a corporate inspection, but at least it no longer resembled a warzone. The closing manager had given them all £5 cash which every last one of them used in the wine and spirits department on their way out.

The bus pulled up to Mycroft's stop and he staggered out. He thought of Vesta, that she had probably had just as bad of a day, and would be facing the same hectic atmosphere that he was for the next four miserable weeks. He made a mental note to save some of the wine for her. It was a significant cut above Winking Owl, so it should be a treat.

He approached his building and saw something that didn't belong...someone. That familiar silhouette...it couldn't be! He rubbed his hazy eyes, careful not to drop his unopened bottle. That would be a pity to waste on a night like this. “Eurus?!” He called. The woman turned and smiled what may have once been menacing. Mycroft found himself beaming back in earnest. He looked her up and down as he drew nearer. “Oh, am I glad to see you!” he gushed eagerly.

Eurus flinched. “Glad to see me?”

“You have no idea. We could have used you at work tonight! Could've cleared out the store one way or another. You...you look well.” He gulped, catching his breath. “Judging by your complexion, I'd say you broke out about two weeks ago. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you. I've missed our chats.”

“You're not afraid of me? I mean, I am a convicted murderer escaped from a maximum-security prison.”

Mycroft laughed wildly, “Afraid of you? What can you do to me? You can't kill what's already dead, dear sister. I...I just worked Black Friday. Nothing can frighten me now. What...what are you doing here? How did you find me? To tell you the truth, I missed you.”

She shrugged, “I got bored. And I wanted to see why you stopped visiting. Even when you didn't visit, you'd at least call. I suppose I missed you, too. You're the closest thing I have to an intellectual equal.”

“I'm touched. Look, come inside. You'll catch your death out here.”

At that moment, a familiar black car came and parked in front of the building. Vesta got out and locked it, looking just as windswept as her husband did as she dragged her feet up the walk. She looked at the strange woman Mycroft was talking to and approached.

“Myc, who's your friend?” She asked, looking between the two of them suspiciously. She'd never suspected her husband of having an affair, but if he did she would at least hope he'd be a bit more discreet than this.

“Oh, Vesta, let me introduce you. This is my sister, Eurus. She's escaped from prison and was kind enough to drop in.” Mycroft looked a bit cracked as he cordially presented his depraved sister to his wife. “Eurus, this is my wife.”

“What were you in prison for?” Vesta asked pleasantly. “Nice you got out and about.” She'd worked with enough ex-cons to not be too shocked. At one point, she safely assumed that most of the people she knew had been in the slammer before.

“Murder. Arson, too, I suppose.”

“Oh. All right. Well, nice to meet you at last! And don't worry, my lips are sealed. Family, after all,” she added with a confidential gesture, suggesting that they were all on the same team.

Again, the accused was forced to deal with someone being happy to see her! She looked distinctly put out. It wasn't at all the impression she had evidently struck out to make. “You two must be in rough shape if _I'm_ a pleasant surprise.”

Mycroft scoffed and waved a hand. “Come now, it's the holidays. Let's not bother about ancient history of who killed who, who burned the house down, or even who tried to kill who. Water under the bridge. Vesta's right, we're family, and isn't that more important? And I only kept you locked up for everyone's protection. As much for your sake as...the rest of the world's.” He remembered well that day at Sherrinford; the need for the _safety and security_ of his sister were stressed before the need for her _incarceration_.

“How...thoughtful of you, brother dear,” Eurus nodded incredulously. “It was a fair cop, I admit.”

“Good, that's settled then. Now do come inside.”

Vesta put an arm around the dark-haired woman and led her up the stairs. “It's a bit cramped, but it's home.”

They got in the door, Mycroft set his hard-won bottle of wine in the kitchen for safekeeping, and started the teakettle. Meanwhile, the women sat in the main room on the makeshift couch; Vesta was forcing Eurus into _small talk_. He smiled as he puttered around the kitchen, knocking up a quick, simple meal for the three of them. One lucky find that Vesta had gotten from work just recently was ham off-cuts, end pieces that couldn't be sold as an entree. She'd chopped it up fine with mayonnaise and pickles and made it a good ham salad spread. He scooped up a dish of that and some homemade chicken liver pate and made a few slices of toast to cut into triangles. He brought out the tea tray, feeling quite proud of himself for being able to play host.

“You must be hungry,” he remarked to his sister, looking genuinely concerned. “You're looking awfully thin. Are they feeding you well enough?”

“You're one to talk,” Eurus answered, still dazed at her welcome into her brother's and sister-in-law's home. Still, she accepted a cup of tea and some bread and spreads. “The wife starving you?” She asked derisively, jerking her head toward Vesta.

“Hardly, she's the one who keeps us fed.”

“I do my best,” Vesta said, helping herself to some food as well. “I'm just glad I work in a restaurant that lets us scrounge through the unsellable bits. The chef knows we can make something out of it.”

“So,” Mycroft led significantly, finishing his tea. “How's Mummy? And Dad? And Sherlock?”

Eurus shrugged indifferently, “They're all fine. Worried about you...at least Mummy and Dad are. Sherlock doesn't seem to be. Oh, I think we need to induct Mary among our ranks. She faked her own death. She's back.”

Vesta had just been taking a drink and let the tea shoot out her nose, “What? Mary's alive?! Our Mary?!”

“Rosamund Mary Elizabeth Morstan Watson, yep, same one. She's alive and well and home with John. It was all an elaborate hoax. Not that we know anything about that, do we, brother? Disappearing dramatically, reappearing dramatically?” Eurus smirked. It was clear she admired the nefarious blonde woman.

Both exiled Holmes' heaved a breath of relief. “How is that possible? I saw her die!” Mycroft gasped.

“You saw her get shot, you saw her get near-mortally-wounded. She laid low for a few months while she healed up and then...surprise!”

“Have they been treating you all right? At Sherrinford?” Mycroft posed. Homicidal maniac or not, this was still his sister and he still remembered being charged with her care at the tender age of eight.

Eurus gave a careless laugh, this was not at all the reception she was expecting! Being so outspokenly welcomed, fed and comforted, pressed for news, and now...now her brother simply wanted to know if she was safely kept. “Yes, I suppose. Well enough. Look, this is too weird, even for me. I have to go. I came all this way to scare the pants off of you and have a good laugh. This is...ugh...I'll tell Mummy you're okay, all right? Right now I have to go back home to prison where it's safe.”

Vesta scratched absently under her shirt, “Won't you stay the night?”

“No. No, and if I ever come back here, it'll be too soon. This was...” the escaped convict gave another shudder. “Good luck.” And she let herself out, slamming the door. Through the closed door, they could barely make out the word: “Weirdos.”

Vesta stared bemusedly at the door. That had all been rather sudden. “She seems nice. I hope she gets home all right.”

“She's a killer.”

Vesta shrugged and yawned mightily, “So are you, and Sherlock, and John, and Mary. Seems that not being a killer is the rare thing in our circles.” She smiled over at her husband. “I'm not going to ask you how your day was, and you're not going to ask that of me. We both know that it was Hell.”

Mycroft had dragged himself back to the kitchen. There was a rustle of foil and a _pop!_ of a cork being extracted. He came back out with two brimming glasses of dark, velvety red Cabernet. He handed one to his wife and sat down next to her. “I sure as hell wasn't going to share _this_ with my criminally insane little sister. She can find her own. Knock off a liquor store on the way home. I don't care. We earned this.”

Vesta took a long sip, then tilted her head back appreciatively. “Thank you,” she gasped.

That night, they slept nestled together, still unconsciously shuddering from their hellish work shifts. Vesta started talking in her sleep, having an active nightmare about a constantly running ticket printer. 

“Stop it... _stop it...STOP IT!!!_ ” she sobbed, shrieking and clawing at air. Mycroft simply patted her and she settled back down, still physically and mentally exhausted. Mycroft's subconscious wasn't much better. His dreams were never-ending racks of clothes to be put away that kept multiplying no matter how much he did. He writhed and moaned before waking himself with a start, his heart racing. After some disorientation, he, too, went back to sleep.

He lay there as his alarm went off the next morning. He was a mid-shift today, one of the lucky ones. Tears pricked his eyes and he lay there, putting off getting up as long as he could. His nerves were still screaming at him from yesterday. Still, needs must.

Mycroft dragged himself out of bed, careful not to disturb Vesta as she slept fitfully. He'd long since stopped caring whether Vesta chose to shower every night after work. He'd grown used to the smell. His limbs felt heavy, reluctant to obey his commands. No real rest had soothed his body and mind. He had struggled the whole night. He wondered if he would be one of the crew who would break down weeping sometime today. 

The only upside to his increase in workload was his paycheck. Even at his paltry wages, he put in enough overtime on those long weeks to squirrel away a bit to account for the rising heating bill. 

Every month when they went over their bills and budget, he felt more and more appreciative of the fact that their car was paid for and that they had no children. He'd never had to even think about a budget before this, his wealth had always seemed endless. He felt a twist of guilt as he recalled promising Vesta that she would never know privation again for the rest of her natural days. Even with Vesta's knack for thrift, they were only just getting by. Every week, Vesta brought out the “Diogenes Club” so they could relax with a small glass of their good alcohol and a special snack. It was this ritual that kept them going. They both longed for a vacation, even a three-day weekend where they could recover themselves. 

“Oh, Vesta, I'm sorry,” Mycroft muttered to himself as he made coffee. He felt more tired now than he had when he went to bed. His brain and body had betrayed him, denied him needed rest.

 

“All right, guys, we're closing up early tonight. It's Christmas Eve!” Chef Pat called to the kitchen, getting a grateful cheer. “You all have tomorrow and Boxing Day off, then we just have to survive New Year's and we'll have some nice easy time ahead.

“Oh, thank god,” Vesta sighed loudly.

It was a busy night, they went flat-out right up to closing time, but luckily the seating hosts stuck firmly to the earlier closing time, not allowing any customers in after a quarter to eight. She got done in time to run and do some shopping. She'd gotten a few Christmas decorations during the lead-up: a length of silver garland and a string of lights and baubles wrapped around what had once been the very top of a fir tree that had been broken off. She'd gotten it for cheap from a tree seller and they stood it up in a flower pot.

She kept a mental note of how much she could comfortably spend. Vesta didn't want to go over £10. The heat bill had been creeping up steadily since the first gasp of winter. Mycroft insisted on keeping the temperature up, and hang the cost, when he heard her struggling for breath at the first chill. They could afford it for now. And later...well, they didn't like to think of the after-Christmas slump. They'd make do. They had to.

She ran to Aldi to get a few bars of their good chocolate and a package of crescent roll dough. A quick dash down the weekly deals aisle led her to a thick, soft pair of men's slippers. Perfect!

 

Mycroft got cut from work early on Christmas Eve, too. He realized all too late that he hadn't done any shopping for his wife. He thought...what would she like? What did she need? And, most importantly, what could he reasonably afford? He stood outside Pound Land, looking up at the sign with a wry face. He checked his wallet, and saw he had £10. To make it worse, he was just given his next month's schedule and it was pretty skimpy. After “returns season”, he would go from working 10 hour days, 12 day weeks, to barely getting three shifts in a row. They had all been scaled back to part time hours until business was expected to pick up. He shook his head to clear it, he reminded himself that Vesta had been an excellent home manager. They were never behind on rent or bills, and as long as everyone didn't withdraw on the same day, everything should be fine. 

Strolling down the bath supplies aisle, Mycroft's eyes fell on something small and simple, that he instantly knew Vesta would like. A smile crept up his face as he thought of it. She'd come home from work every night for the past four months with stained, dirty fingernails that no amount of regular hand-washing could cure. He picked up the nail brush and manicure kit, as well as a bag of scented Epsom salt for the tub. A festive gift bag brought up his whole purchase to £5. He never did manage to find anything to use his employee appreciation discount on. Even with the extra discount, everything at Marks and Spencer was too expensive. Regret needled him as he recalled the luxuries he'd afforded her in the past. This whole experience was so degrading. He stalked home through the snow, grumbling.

Mycroft let himself into the flat and scanned the room. There was a present for him under their little Christmas tree. _The Nutcracker Suite_ played from Vesta's tablet. Clever of her to find holiday music that hadn't been blasted in his ears since October! He smelled cooking and baking. Vesta scurried out of the kitchen toward him and gave him a kiss. She'd changed into one of her old professional outfits from their previous life. She was thoroughly brushed and tidied with makeup on for the first time in months. He looked up, and sure enough, she'd taped a sprig of fake mistletoe over the door frame. “Happy Christmas, dear,” she intoned.

“And you as well.”

“I'm just getting things ready for Christmas lunch tomorrow. There are a few treats for us tonight, though,” she informed him sweetly, gesturing to the table. A dozen sugar cookies cut into Christmas trees, stars, and bells, with colored sugar decoratively baked on. On another tray were meatballs, dates wrapped in bacon, crackers and sliced cheese. Two glasses of red wine stood ready as well.

Mycroft was quiet for a while as he took off his coat and shoes at the door, gazing thoughtfully at his wife and at all she had been able to prepare in the past hour after getting home. Without a word, he helped himself to a bacon-wrapped date and popped it into his mouth. “Mummy used to make these for parties.”

Vesta smiled, glad to have pleased him so perfectly. She had hoped to give him a taste of home, as much as she'd wanted tonight to be special. She remembered his mother serving them at the wedding party that his parents threw for them in their house in the country, and Mummy had confidentially let Vesta know that they were one of “Mycie's” favorites. Despite their threadbare existence, she remained houseproud to a fault, and determined to do this right.

“Let me get washed up first. Then, we'll have ourselves a little Christmas, shall we?” Mycroft suggested, looking as thought he was finally feeling the spirit of the season. He quickly dashed into the bathroom, dropping his wife's present under the tree on his way in.

“I'm sure you don't need me to tell you what good thinking you employed when you packed all that soap. I would have had no idea how dirty I would get from working in a department store. Even when I don't go on the loading dock, it just follows me everywhere,” he called from the bathroom.

“I know just what you mean. Even when I had an office job, it was always such a pleasure to get clean at the end of the day. Even more so now,” Vesta agreed.

He came back out and changed into a clean suit behind their makeshift changing screen. He hummed along with the music, evidently already feeling better with a change of wardrobe. The basic dress code at work was detrimental to his self-image. He'd taken to wearing the same few outfits every day because he didn't want to wear out all of his clothes at once. They certainly wouldn't be able to afford to replace them! They looked at each other and smiled, they looked like themselves again.

They sat together cozily, listening to Tchaikovsky and eating Christmas Eve nibbles. It had been a shorter, easier day at work for both of them, and it was a bit of a treat. The fact that they hadn't been worked half to death made it almost like a holiday in itself. 

As was so often the case, they found that they didn't need to say anything to each other. They simply absorbed each other through some sort of osmosis. It was refreshingly comfortable after their noisy, demanding jobs. Peace and quiet was sheer bliss.

They spent the next day in much the same way, staying in bed as long as they could. Mycroft even indulged his wife in a good-morning tumble, followed by a cozy cuddle. He still wasn't fond of touching, but he was willing to endure it for her sake. A healthy woman couldn't live on hand-holding alone and he couldn't expect her to.

Around 11, Vesta finally rose and stretched. Mycroft did likewise, feeling several pops in his back and shoulders that hadn't been there before their exile. Since Mycroft was fastest, he was first in the shower while she started a pot of coffee for them both. They had long since run out of their original stash of good quality coffee and had had to resort to lesser varieties. It took some getting used to, and there was initially a good deal of grumbling on both of their parts. Still, they forced themselves to make do. With proper preparations and necessary doctoring, it was palatable. Fortunately, they still had plenty of tea left. 

After her turn in the shower and getting dressed, Vesta picked up where she left off the night before, putting finishing touches on her luncheon as she sipped her coffee. Mycroft took the opportunity to do a quick tidy up, making his wife giggle by pretending to peek in his present with an impish smirk. He gave the tablecloth a good sweep-off and set the table with what Vesta handed to him.

Once things seemed to be under control, Mycroft turned the music back on and settled down on the “sofa”. He picked up the tablet and flicked through Vesta's books, and found the one he was looking for. He opened “A Christmas Carol” and began reading aloud.

From the kitchen, Vesta sighed happily, “Oh, I haven't heard this in ages!” She came out with a fresh cup of coffee and a top-up for her husband, sat down next to him and listened to him read to her. It was such a cozy gesture. He had an irresistible speaking voice for narrating, and he did different character voices for everyone. Vesta sat in rapt attention, which struck Mycroft as a bit of a surprise. He'd half expected her to listen for twenty minutes and then decide to do something else. Nothing, it seemed, could compare to today's impromptu entertainment.

 

Just as he was finishing up, a bell rang in the kitchen and everything was done. There were candles lit on the table; the good table linens, too, gave it a sense of occasion. First she brought out a bottle of sauvignon blanc and filled their glasses. Then she brought out steaming bowls of French onion soup with toasted cheese on top. The main course was stuffed chicken thighs, Pommes Anna, and oven-roasted carrots. He'd put on a waistcoat, jacket and a tie for the occasion today as well. Vesta said nothing, but lifted her wine glass to clink with him. He did and they ate. It was a cozy little Christmas dinner for two. Dessert was crescent rolls baked with a square of rich, Swiss chocolate in the middle, drizzled with an icing sugar glaze. The best part about that was the leftovers would be good for breakfast the next morning. 

After they cleaned up after dinner, they exchanged gifts. Mycroft was thoroughly embarrassed by how touched his wife was by her gift. It was only a £1 nail brush and some accompanying articles, but she kept cooing over how thoughtful it was, how nice, how she'd use it every day. In turn, he was pleased with his new slippers. They seemed just what his aching feet needed at the end of a rough day. 

“Go on, take a nice, hot bath,” Mycroft suggested, refilling Vesta's wine glass. “We'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow. Enjoy yourself tonight.”

“It's been nice having the day off together!” Vesta sighed happily. She took her wine glass into the bathroom along with her new bag of bath crystals. Mycroft heard water running. She hadn't indulged in a bath for ages, it wasted too much water and heat. Still, once couldn't hurt. There was a rippling sound an a relieved 'ahhh'.

Vesta wasted no time using her new nail brush on her stained fingernails. Mycroft was right, bringing this much soap as she had proved useful. She worried that it had been silly, but she remembered all too well her years of destitution, when her only luxury was getting clean at the end of the day. After vigorous scrubbing and splashing, she finally fell still, letting herself soak. Unhurried, unfettered. True, she had to tuck her knees up if she wanted to fit. It would never compare to her claw-footed tub back home, but it was still good. 

She sipped her wine and let her mind and body unravel. It was the most wonderful feeling. And to have gotten two whole days off to enjoy at home with her husband. She hoped he was unwinding as well, in his own way. He never did ask where she stashed their good drinks, never sneaked any just for himself without the guise of their own branch of the Diogenes Club. It made it more special for it to appear sporadically. After about half an hour, she got out of the tub and dried off.

They were in a comfortable silence as they changed into their pjs together. They sat together on the bed and he let her cuddle up to him while they read. Some hours later, they were both fast asleep.


	4. Teamwork

One cold, dark morning in January, Mycroft's phone rang. Vesta started awake and rolled over with a soft groan. He squinted at the caller ID and saw it was from work. “Yes, hello?”

“Hey, Mike. You know how you were originally scheduled to come in at 3 today?”

“Yes?” he faltered, having a good idea of where this was going and not liking the sounds of it. Still, he shot wide. “Do you need me in earlier?”

The manager on the other end of the line sounded apologetic, like she didn't like making this call any more than he wanted to receive it. “I don't think we're going to need you in today after all. Enjoy the day off and see you tomorrow hopefully.”

Mycroft let out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was only getting twenty-five hours this week already.” He tried to keep the complaining note out of his voice. Still, they needed to remember that their workers needed the work, needed the money.

“I know. I'm sorry. It's only for a little while. Things will pick up. We just didn't reach our sales goal for the holidays, and that's taken a chunk out of payroll. If it was up to me...” she petered out with a defeated sigh.

“Does the corporate office not take an interest in our welfare? How do they expect their employees to keep a roof over their heads if we don't have any hours? I know brick-and-mortar stores in general are suffering anymore, but the higher-ups are still doing quite well for themselves. Rich bastards,” he grumbled, the phrase coming quite natural to him now. He'd all but forgotten that not even a year ago he'd been one of those despised ones. Already, he was thinking about changes he would make once he was restored to his previous position. Serious changes.

“I know. It's not fair. I'm mad, too.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, digesting this. “Do we need anyone extra on the service desk to process returns? Or the loading dock? Please...” he had no idea why he was trying to appeal to his boss, when it wasn't even her doing. “I...we can't live on £100 this week. The gas alone...” he stopped himself with a heavy sigh. “Look, I understand. It's out of your purview. Just...don't take me off the board entirely. Genevieve can't support us both.” He made a noise in his throat as though he just remembered something. “Keep Angie in ladies' on the board before me, though. She has two kids. We'll make do. It's just us. We can...tough it out.”

Cindy brought a hand to her mouth at those words, sympathy stabbing her heart. When this man had started, few people expected him to last. He'd had every outward sign of being soft and not cut out for this kind of work. Bets had been made about whether he would last a month, two months, through Christmas, and he'd held on and held his own. He'd taken no time at all to be valuable, despite it being obvious that he'd never worked in the service industry before. Now he was offering his meager hours for the sake of a coworker who he felt needed them more. “I'll do my best to give everybody hours. We'll pick up again. The seasonal help is cut loose, so there will be more for the rest of the regular staff after this.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and sat up with his head in his hands. “No work today,” he said simply.

“That was sweet of you to think of your friend first,” Vesta told him, sitting up as well and putting an arm around his shoulder.

“She's not my friend,” Mycroft denied, scoffing at the comical notion.

“Your sister in the trenches,” she corrected, getting a nod from her husband at that. “We'll be all right.”

“You run a tight ship; I'm glad you do. If we'd been any more lavish, if it weren't for your strict household management we'd have been in trouble now. It won't be comfortable, but we'll manage.”

 

On the other side of London, Agent Thames sat at a computer, on the phone with one of her advisors. It had been a long time since she'd last been engaged in her formal office, but she found returning to it last fall was easy enough. It was like riding a bicycle, you never forget the way the game is played. It had touched her that Mycroft had requested her specifically as his replacement during his time away. They'd had their differences over the years, but she was fond of the pompous man, in her own way. To know he had equal respect and loyalty for her meant a lot. Perhaps this humbling experience would be a good wake-up call to the man in power.

“So, Mr. Holmes is feeling the pinch at last. Better late than never, I'd say. It'll do him good. Oh, I agree, he can struggle a while longer. I do feel sorry for his poor wife. She didn't deserve this, but she's done so well! It's so sweet she chose to go into exile with him, and he's learning already. Let's see how close to the bottom he'll get, though, before I start doing anything.”

“Agreed, Ma'am.”

 

For a man known for his laziness, Mycroft was soon itching to be at work, doing something, earning money for the home. Knowing that there was no end whatsoever for Vesta, and that the role of breadwinner was now squarely on her shoulders, he had reason enough to feel guilty for any idleness. The trouble with getting that phone call was that now he was fully awake, and there was no hope of him getting back to sleep. He got out of bed, tucking the covers back around his wife, and quietly went about his morning routine. Afterward, he checked the inventory sheet on the fridge. They had gotten into the habit of going over it together. He even took part in the meal planning, offering suggestions and doing some prep work. Due to his paltry hours since the holidays, they'd tightened up even more, leaving no room for mishap. Being actually full after meals was a distant memory. Mycroft shook his head sadly, wishing he could make this all go away. It all felt so unfair. He found himself once again wondering how long their exile would last.

Vesta was only just rising around noon when Mycroft looked like he had an idea. It had snowed rather heavily the night before. Perhaps...he gritted his teeth against the thought, but still...he needed to do something.

He walked to the leasing office and approached the front desk. “I was wondering if I could shovel snow for the block. My job just called me off for today, so I'm free.”

“And skint,” the landlady suspected out loud. She gave him a calculating look before sighing loudly. “Just this once. Our groundskeeper needs the work, too. He just called in sick this morning, so you're lucky there. Shovel all of the walks and the parking lot, keep the piles neat, and don't forget to salt the paths.”

“Yes, thank you!”

“And don't be all day about it, either,” she added, handing him the snow shovel and a large, covered bucket. She stalked back inside, muttering to herself. Mycroft got the impression that she knew he'd never shoveled snow in his life.

He cleared the first walk quickly, but by the third or fourth, it was already creeping up on him. The snow was wet and heavy, it was just warm enough outside to start to melt. It took him two hours just to do the front walks. The main path of pavement still needed to be cleared and treated, lest the melting snow refreeze the second it turned cold again. Still, he toiled on, oddly surprised that he felt quite hot from the effort.

Vesta waved at him on her way to the bus stop when it was time for her to go to work. He watched her go with a stab of envy. Then, she stopped, and threw something at him! He ducked, raising his shovel like a shield. A sharp tinkle clattered to the concrete. “Of course, my keys.” He waved at her retreating back as he pocketed them. All that remained was the parking lot. Luckily, it was a small one, but he wanted to make the work last as long as he could, supposing he was getting paid by the hour.

Occasionally, the landlady would step out for a cigarette, watching her tenant's progress. Despite being unfamiliar with the task, he wasn't doing badly. He was even knocking down icicles that hung from the eaves. He had to stop periodically to catch his breath and stretch, but he wasn't a malingerer or a deliberate time-waster. He obviously was in earnest in wanting to earn his money. It put him up in the woman's estimations.

Before he knew it, Mycroft was finishing up. On these short, dismal winter days, most of the time there were only brief glimpses of sunlight before it fell dark and cold again. The whole job took him four hours to complete, but the ambient darkness made it feel like it had taken much longer. 

“All right, that's good enough. Tell you the truth, I didn't think you'd do that good of a job.” She chuckled brusquely to herself and counted out money into his hand. “There's 10, 15, £20. And it's just this once, remember. This was a gift, mind you.”

He folded the notes in his hand and he went back up to his flat. “Better than nothing,” he muttered to no one as he collapsed on his dining room chair. He hadn't expected to make his usual rate. The more he thought of it, the more he realized he'd been very lucky. Most people hired kids to shovel for them for only £5. At least this could feasibly go towards something.

 

Vesta experienced no seasonal slump at the restaurant, things were just as busy as ever, even after New Year's. She still shuddered to remember that night. As much as the chef tried to cheer them with promises of an easy night on the horizon, business showed no sign of tapering off. It looked like they'd keep going flat-out into Valentine's Day. She was determined throughout the night, however, that she would not complain about her day when she got home. It would sound like an insult, and Mycroft would take it badly. The man still had his pride, after all.

It was easy to keep distracted at work, the dinner rush was just the catharsis Vesta needed to keep from worrying about bills and money. With Mycroft down to half his normal hours, she felt sick to her stomach at the very thought of rent and their budget, and _ugh!_ It wasn't fair!

The other cooks could tell that she was worried, most probably rightly guessed that it was about money. They had all been there, some were permanently there. It was just part of their existence and their station in life. Always worried, never able to get an even footing. Certainly never allowed to be _comfortable._ It was like some sick trick of the gods in Greek mythology.

At eleven o'clock, they were let out. That was when Vesta felt the crushing weight of anxiety hit her in full. Now that the comparatively pleasant distraction of work was over, there was nothing keeping it off of her shoulders. It was a twisting feeling in her gut, a sharp taste of adrenaline in her mouth, a powerless sickness that dragged and drooped her shoulders down.

“Hey, Jen...you all right?” Cricket, the grill cook asked. He was a man of few words, but he kept a good eye on his crew. Jen had always been a favorite of his from her early years there, after she'd proven herself equal to the job.

Vesta shook her head dully. “My husband's hours got cut. I...I don't know what we're going to do. I can't support us both.”

Cricket shook his head in sympathy, knowing that feeling all too well. He was a fifty-year-old, grizzled line cook. He'd had his share of ups and downs, and he understood where she was coming from. He pulled out his billfold and bashfully gave her a 5 pound note. “Look, I can't help with rent, but dinner's on me. All right? Things don't look so bad when you've had something to eat.”

Vesta smiled at him, her eyes brimming with hot tears at his gesture. She shyly accepted his offering. “Thank you. You're right.”

“And, you know, most times they'll let a month slide. If you've been good up to now, just let them know you'll be a bit late, a bit short, as long as it's not a usual thing.” Cricket suggested wisely. “I know most people are bastards, but some're halfway decent.

Vesta nodded in appreciation. It was true. Unfortunately, the biggest expense was without compromise. Her landlady had made it abundantly clear that rent was due in full on the first of each month, no exceptions. That was the one that worried her. How would they scrape up £900, in addition to a partial payment to their other bills?

She looked down at her umbrella, at the jewels sparkling in the handle. Nobody at work would have thought to steal it. No one in their right mind would have assumed the diamonds were real. An idea brewed, the solution to their immediate financial problems was as heavy in her heart as the troubles themselves. Her mind was made up, though.

Two blocks from the restaurant, there was a pawn shop. Vesta gripped her beloved umbrella hard, anticipating being parted from it forever. She knew that there was no way she could save up enough to buy it back, at least not before anyone else liked the looks of it and snapped it up. Still, it fell to her to keep a roof over their heads.

She didn't see a light blue car parked across the street. She didn't see John and Mary Watson leaving her restaurant and heading to said car...but they saw her. By the time they recognized her, Vesta was already in the shop. John and Mary looked at each other quizzically, with wide, confused eyes.

“She's alive!” gasped John. He had the look of a man who had seen too many of his circle die and then miraculously rise from the grave.

“What's she doing?” Mary wondered, squinting to see in the window. She crossed the street, dodging between cars, while John waited by theirs. She saw her friend hand a man her umbrella. Mary was certain that it was the one Mycroft used to propose to her, that it was consequently one of her most treasured possessions. Mary could read the woman's body language, she was clearly in distress. The man's shape seemed to soften, as if moved by something she had told him...

 

The pawnbroker ran an electronic device over the stones in the handle, a light turned green over each one, signifying that it wasn't fake. He looked at them through an eyepiece, checking the clarity and cut of each one. He looked at the woman across the counter. “Swear you didn't steal it?”

“I didn't steal it,” Vesta murmured. “It was a gift. I just really need the money.”

The man had been in this business for several years, this made him an excellent reader of people. He could see that she wasn't lying, and that this umbrella was dear to her, and probably not just because it was encrusted in precious stones. Normally, when people sold their valuables, they seemed all too glad to be rid of them, or more concerned with the money they needed for them. This was clearly the woman's last resort to settle her expenses.

“Look...I can't give you more than £500 for it. Probably worth more than that, but I've got my overhead to think of.”

Vesta nodded, “I understand. It'll help, at least.” She took the money and left, despondently. Upon leaving the shop, she walked straight into Mary!

Her eyes went wide, like a wild animal caught in headlights. Her face went bright red in humiliation. She'd seen! Her breath came in choppy gasps as her brain went in to fight-or-flight mode. Resisting the impulse to run, Vesta blurted out, “I thought you were dead!”

Mary laughed. “Same goes for you. Good thing we aren't, hmm?”

Vesta shook her head fearfully. “Not me. I'd be better off. Oh, god, he's going to be upset with me!”

“Why?” So much was happening all at once, Mary could barely keep up. Her missing friend turning up in this unexpected way, in some sort of trouble, bad enough to be selling personal possessions for half what they were worth. Through Vesta's unzipped coat, Mary could see the chef's uniform she had on underneath. So, clearly she was no longer the British Government's P.A. Mary wondered how Mycroft was faring. Had they fought and he kicked her out? Not likely. Even if they'd split up, the Mycroft Holmes that she knew wouldn't have thrown his wife out into the street. It appeared that whatever they were struggling with, they were in it together.

“What will I say? He'll notice it's gone, he'll know what I did!” Vesta sobbed.

Across the street, John read a text his wife had just sent him, telling him what just happened. Quickly, he called Sherlock...

“Vesta just came out of a pawn shop, she just hocked her umbrella, the one Mycroft gave her. She looks upset. I think she and your brother might be in some sort of trouble.”

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock languidly strolled his living room. “Hmm. Maybe there was something to Eurus's remark, last time I visited her. She kept giggling that the king had lost his crown. I'll see if I can get more out of her.”

“Yeah. Good. She likes you.”

Sherlock smirked, “She asked about you, too. Wondered if you'd pay her a visit. She said she misses your chats. I wasn't aware you spoke with her.” There was just a hint of Protective Older Brother in his voice. 

John hid his face in embarrassment. He still hadn't admitted to Sherlock that the attractive woman he sort-of cheated on Mary with was Sherlock's own sister! There was no right way to bring that up! “Yeah...yeah, sure, maybe next time, if she wants.” he blabbered self-consciously, keeping an eagle eye on his wife and Vesta. Mary appeared to be imploring her to join them, but Vesta looked like she'd give anything to get away.

“I can't. I can't!” She repeated frantically. Suddenly, she threw herself on Mary in a hug, heaving a quick sob. “I'm glad you're all right. I might be, too, someday. But I can't be seen with you. Mycroft might get in trouble! I don't know what all this entails, he can't tell me everything, just that we're dead, disappeared. We don't exist anymore!”

“Can't I help?” Mary asked, “I've been told I'm quite handy to have around in a crisis.”

Vesta gave her friend a watery smile and touched her arm affectionately. “Thanks, but we'll sort it out somehow. I have to go.”

With perfect timing, her bus rolled in at the sheltered bus stop at the corner. Vesta dashed towards it and disappeared, leaving Mary quite windswept from the ordeal.

 

Mycroft was asleep when Vesta got home from work. He no longer waited up for her every night. The money he earned shoveling snow sat in a neat pile on the dining room table. There was a note stuck to the fridge in his handwriting. “It's all still there. I wasn't hungry” was all it said. Vesta sadly took it down. She knew how he felt. After all this time of keeping close track, there was no pleasure left in eating some days. Knowing how tight money was, it made one lose one's appetite quite easily.

The next morning, Mycroft was the first to wake up. He saw a note on the table, reiterating what the grill cook had said, advising that they simply ask for an extension on a few utilities, but assurance that he ought not worry about the rent. It was taken care of.

“Must've swung something,” he muttered to himself, grimacing at his vernacular. He'd picked up his coworkers' slang sometime in the past few months. Mycroft tutted to himself and wondered whatever more common habits he may have unknowingly acquired. It was his turn to take the bus, so he left rather hastily. The next one was due in fifteen minutes, so he had no time to waste at home. Just as he was closing the door, he noticed...the empty slot where Vesta's umbrella usually stood. He didn't have the time to confront her about it now, he had to get to work and he wasn't going to spoil one of the few days he was actually scheduled for. Still, he made a mental note to have _words_ with her at the end of the day.

Mycroft and Joel were folding a wall full of trousers together. The younger man saw his coworker looking distracted, almost angry about something.

“Settled the rent, did she? I'll settle her...” Mycroft muttered under his breath as he vigorously stacked and sorted trousers by size, style, and color. “I'll kill her. Ever get my hands on her, I'll kill her!”

“Who?” Joel asked.

Mycroft paused, checking himself. “Genevieve. She...she did something very _stupid._ Had to be the hero, the unselfish one. Just had to show me up! Show me who's supporting who, I suppose. Stupid!” He wrestled with a more recalcitrant pair before flinging them down in frustration. In his simmering rage, his hands weren't obeying commands. Joel picked them up and, with a snap and a flip, had them folded and put in the right pile. 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the man. “I gave her something...something valuable and...sentimental. I gave it to her before things went bad. It was all she brought with her that was pretty, that was nice.” A hanger snapped in half in his trembling hands. “And she sold it! For rent! My engagement gift to her, I had it custom-made for her! And she had to sell it to keep a roof over our heads. And it's all my fault,” he finished defeatedly. Because that was the crux of the matter. He wasn't truly angry that she had sold a precious possession, but that he'd inadvertently forced her to. Through him involving her with this business in the first place, coupled with his lousy hours at work, it had left her with no choice. It shamed him, mocked him! “It's my fault,” he repeated faintly. He heaved a heartbroken sigh, flinging the broken hanger away and grabbing another pair of trousers to fold.

Joel listened sympathetically, pausing his work to give his friend's back a slap. “That's a rough go. I mean, lucky she had something worth selling, right? Look, you're still a provider. I'm sure she doesn't see you as less of a man because you can't support her. I bet it hurt her to give something like that up.”

“I'm sure it did. She's sentimental like that. And it's gone forever. I can never afford to buy it back.”

He was quiet for the whole rest of his shift. Word got around fast that he was on the warpath due to trouble at home. Nobody on the floor troubled him with questions or conversation, they took their cue that he wasn't in the mood.

After work, he took the bus home. At one of the stops he saw the window of Jabez Wilson's Pawn Shop. There in the window, with a cheerful glitter at the handle, was Vesta's umbrella. Seeing it in there made him feel sick all over again. He sighed heavily and, knowing it was futile, he still needed to see it up close. He got off the bus and walked into the shop.

The man at the counter had greasy black hair and a heavy mustache. He hunched over the glass display case, reading the paper with half an eye while he watched Mycroft enter and look around.

Mycroft was surprised that it wasn't any better protected than it was. It sat in a holder full of an assortment of ordinary umbrellas right in the window. He lifted it out, handling it reverently. “Um, excuse me?” He held it up with a little wave. “Can you tell me how much this is?”

“Brolly's are two quid,” the man grumbled gruffly.

“No, but this one, you see...this one is different--”

The man stood up and gave a dismissive snort. “'s it damaged? Torn?”

“No, no, it's in excellent condition. I only thought...you might be asking a bit low.”

Clearly annoyed, the man flung his paper aside and growled, “You want that brolly?”

“Very much,” Mycroft answered crisply, looking increasingly intimidated by the lean, muscled man behind the counter.

“You got two quid?”

Mycroft checked his wallet. He had exactly two pounds to his name until payday. Luckily, that was only a few days away. His bus pass was still paid up, there was still food at home—amazing how quickly he inventoried their assets now—so everything was accounted for. “Yes, I do.”

The gruff man gestured he come up to the register. “Then what you do is you give me your two pounds, an' I sell it to you.” He glanced at the glittering inscription on the handle and chuckled. “It's for your girl, innit? Gettin a bit of sparkle for your old lady. You want it wrapped?”

“No, no thank you. Thank you very much,” he floundered as the transaction was completed. He took it in a plain brown paper bag and scurried out. He sat down at the bus stop with a triumphant shriek of laughter as he took it out to examine it. There it was, perfect as the day he'd given it to her. Just perfect! It was too good to be true, but it seemed as though fate was finally smiling on him. He giggled hysterically to himself again as he pondered surprising Vesta when she got home.

The second that Mycroft's bus collected him and left, Sherlock took off his disguise and tossed it in the bin. Then, he went to the back room where he had the shop owner tied up. He untied him and counted out the money to make up the difference. As much as he loved theatrics, he was at least this responsible.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Wilson,” he said smoothly, heedless of the frightened look the man wore that was rapidly turning to outrage. By the time Mr. Wilson collected himself enough to respond to his treatment, Sherlock was well away. He sent John and Mary each a text. “It's done.”

Mycroft got home and immediately started planning out how he was going to give it to her again. This sort of thing wasn't his forte, personal context as his sister icily called it. He thought of putting it on her side of the bed, sticking it back in its holder where it belonged, dramatically pulling it out from behind his back with a casual “It seems you've misplaced this,” hooking it over her dining room chair... How to choose?

That night, he felt like celebrating. It would make a real occasion of it. Mycroft giggled giddily to himself as his plan hatched. They didn't have a television, so he'd taken to reading whatever Vesta had downloaded on her tablet in his downtime. One of these was a Julia Child cookbook, and he'd been studying. There was a recipe he'd wanted to try, and it didn't need anything too expensive. _Oeufs a la Bourguignon_ , poached eggs on toast with a simple pan sauce. “Easy,” he said aloud to no one. “Even I can do this. I can...boil water and...make toast. Oh, she'll be so surprised!” It made him feel good to be able to do something special for his wife. Like his brother, he was a born showoff.

The toast popped up, the egg passed the poke test, and the sauce was perfectly reduced. Mycroft chuckled with a self-satisfied air as he plated the dish. The doorknob jiggled, the door opened...Mycroft looked up expectantly...and in stepped Sherlock.

“Hello, dear brother,” he purred in velvet tones. “Hit a bit of a rough spot, it seems?”

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” the elder Holmes gasped wrongfootedly.

“Our sister was kind enough to share your whereabouts...” Sherlock explained, looking the flat over. “And circumstances. Eurus seemed to find the whole thing quite funny. Once she was safely home at Sherrinford, she told us all about it.”

Mycroft looked even more ashen, humiliated, “ 'Us'? Are you saying--?”

Sherlock chuckled darkly, “Yes, Mummy and Dad know. They mainly wanted to make sure Vesta was still with you. They seemed to have doubts that you could fend for yourself.”

Mycroft wasn't sure exactly why, but he wanted his brother to leave him alone. It was a relief to see him after all this time, but _not now_. He wanted so badly to have this moment, this perfect moment with his wife. “Sherlock, please, she'll be home any second.”

“Yes, you should tell her to be more careful with her things, too. I saw her precious umbrella in a pawn shop a few blocks away. Oh, you got it back! Good,” he rejoined smoothly. He gave Mycroft the barest hint of a wink.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and annoyance. “It was you. Of course it was.” He paused, then— “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate it. So will she.”

With a thoughtful snigger, Sherlock peeked at what his brother was doing. “Oh, she taught you to cook, how quaint.”

“It's a surprise for her. I've been...reading up.”

“Well, I shan't disturb you any further. Give Vesta my regards.” And with that, his barely-minute-long interview with Mycroft was over.

 

On the way up to her home, Vesta ran into her brother-in-law, almost literally! “Sorry, dear sister, gotta dash. Mycroft is waiting up for you. Best not to keep him waiting.” Before she could even react, he was gone into the shadows. With little else to do but take his advice, Vesta mounted the stairs quickly and threw open the door.

There was a place set at the dinner table, and her umbrella was hooked over the back of her chair. Her initials glittered at her in the lamplight. Mycroft stood smirking in the kitchen, looking so pleased with himself that it should be illegal.

Vesta looked rapturous and she took up her umbrella, running her fingers lovingly across the handle before turning her sparkling eyes to her husband. “How?”

“Ask me no questions, my dear, and I shall tell you no lies,” he told her smugly as she took her seat. 

Vesta considered this, teetering between her curiosity and worry that her husband had done something foolish. Trust won out, though. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize their situation, not now. “All right, I'll allow it this once,” she smiled as she cast an admiring gaze at her plate. “You've been reading Julia Child,” Vesta rightly assessed before digging in. “Mmm, I haven't made this since school.”

Mycroft sat down across from her, folding his hands in front of him, propping his chin. He gazed drowsily as he watched her enjoy his cooking. Knowing his brother had such a hand in getting Vesta's umbrella back didn't dampen his pleasure of being able to give it back to her. Frankly, it was a relief, knowing that he hadn't cheated some poor pawnbroker out of hundreds of pounds. And they still had rent money! After this shabby month, things should start shaping up again.

Vesta finished her supper contentedly, unable to find any fault in the preparation or in the dent it made in their inventory. One slice of bread, one egg, a paltry amount of seasonings, half a cup of beef broth and a splash of wine. With Mycroft's guilt-ridden lack of appetite the day before, they were still in the black as far as their pantry and fridge were concerned. For this to happen during their skimpiest pay period on record was an accomplishment.

“You'll be pleased to know I didn't even waste any butter to thicken the sauce. I used a spoonful of the beef fat you have saved in the fridge in a jar.” Meat in general had become a rare treat for them, for special occasions rather than a customary part of the meal, and Vesta had taken to saving any fat or drippings to use later. It helped stretch things along. Their diets consisted chiefly of bread, potatoes, eggs, various beans, onions and other inexpensive root vegetables, and tinned tomatoes. Mycroft knew better than to complain, since he still felt his share of guilt for their circumstances, and that it would be rude and horribly ungrateful to slight his wife's household management when she was only getting by on what she could. He never forgot the cruel words he'd thrown at her early on, the righteous rage that had resulted from it. He never wanted to hurt his wife again after that dreadful fight. It surprised both of them how many variations she could create out of limited, humble ingredients.

“I taught you well,” Vesta observed, taking her plate to the sink. “You're wonderful.” Then, figuring one good turn deserved another, she went to take a shower while Mycroft settled into bed. When she came back out again, she snuggled into bed next to him, her umbrella clutched to her chest like a teddy bear, as if she never wanted to be parted from it again. Mycroft gave a contented little growl and pulled her close. 

“Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“This isn't forever, is it?”

“No, dear, not forever.” He gave her a cozy squeeze, accurately assessing that she needed the reassurance tonight.

“What's the first thing you'll do when you get reinstated?”

“Probably buy a whole closetful of new suits.”

Vesta smiled. “Let's go to France. With your precious new suits.”

Mycroft smiled as well. “Which part?”

“Lyon, no question. At the very least to see Paul Bocuse's cooking academy, and restaurants!” She sounded absolutely reverent, as if he had been her old master. 

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed sleepily. It was obvious that his wife had loved this man, idolized him. “Very well. Lyon it is.”

 

Sherlock was summoned the next day to give an official report to Agent Thames. They exchanged knowing smiles over the table that had been set for tea. The atmosphere was cozy, but businesslike.

“Well? What did you find?”

Sherlock sipped his tea lazily, recalling his night's prowling. “My brother has adapted a great deal in a short space of time. They both have.” He paused. “I must admire all involved parties' ingenuity. I knew nothing of his predicament until Eurus made her cryptic remarks, which were confirmed by John and Mary.”

“Nobody should have known,” Agent Thames remarked, stirring her tea and passing him a plate of shortbread. She smiled, clearly not really angry about the leak. She actually looked amused by it, as if this was all forming a predictable pattern. “Of course, anything involving your family...well, you're not the sort to play by the rules.”

“I spoke to their landlady. She had him shoveling snow for a little cash two days ago. I never would have thought my brother would stoop to manual labor, but he'd actually volunteered.”

“Maybe it's time to lighten the load a little,” the sympathetic woman supposed. Mr. Holmes had caused her her share of difficulties, but she was always fond of him. Sherlock pouted with a shrug as he finished his tea and crammed a biscuit in his mouth. Agent Thames grimaced at his table manners, but she wasn't surprised. “My, ah, sources tell me he's been doing...'well'. I'm not sure that's the word I would have used.”

Sherlock wiped crumbs from his mouth and shirt, “Oh, I'm sure they just mean he's dancing to their tune. They must be enjoying this.”

Agent Thames shook her head disapprovingly. The thought of people getting enjoyment from another man's hardship was too chilling for her. She'd spent the last six months finding her feet back in the organization, and making necessary connections, arrangements.“I have a few things, proposals, started. Seeds planted...Time to get to work, I'd say.”

Sherlock smiled over at the older woman. She'd adjusted well to being called back in out of retirement. It seemed his brother made an excellent choice of a successor. He couldn't have picked a better one.

“I also poked around where he works,” the detective admitted. He pulled a disbelieving face as he delivered his findings. “Apparently, he's well thought-of. Punctual, efficient, reliable...Vesta's stuck at some restaurant. John and Mary went there recently, seated next to the doors to the kitchen. Mary mentioned they kept getting wafted with hot air whenever the doors swung open. I visited there this morning and sure enough, there's no air circulation back there at all. Apparently this is a common trait in professional kitchens.”

“Oh, dear,” Agent Thames recoiled, horrified to hear of such working conditions. “Well, something ought to be done about that. Should be illegal.”

“A word from you, and it could be,” Sherlock suggested. Agent Thames gave a knowing nod and sneaky smile.

“I think this is going to be rather fun, don't you?”

 

A few months later, Vesta came home with the shopping one night, practically skipping in her triumph. “Mycroft, you still up?”

“Hmm?” he grunted, rolling over.

Heedless to her sleepy husband, Vesta seemed unable to contain herself. “Darling, look!” She brought the canvas shopping bag over to the bed and started pulling things out. “I heard it on the news on the radio at work, but I hardly dared believe it. Effective immediately, grocers aren't allowed to throw away their imperfect goods at the end of the day. They have it in a refrigerator case in front for free! I got a loaf of bakery bread, some expired sausages, a few banged-up apples, even a little two-person cake for our anniversary next week. They probably won't have this much every time, but isn't this nice?”

“It is,” Mycroft replied, looking over the groceries. It did cheer him to see it all. “I heard it, too. I wasn't sure what to make of it. This will make a difference to so many people.”

“I'm just glad they can't throw perfectly good food away just because it's a bit dodgy,” Vesta remarked, taking her haul back to the kitchen to put away. “Horribly wasteful, and there are so many hungry people out there.” Mycroft thought to himself how telling it was, that she didn't necessarily include them in her remark. As if she didn't quantify them as being truly working poor. They were just in a bad patch. Others still had it worse.

“Maybe Agent Thames got it put through. Seems the sort of thing she'd do.” And he then rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was true, and it was the latest in a series of recent social reforms to be passed. Homeless shelters, women's shelters, and children's after-school centers had all seen marked improvement to their number, upkeep, accessibility, and overall quality. Vesta's restaurant had been visited by a newly-appointed inspector and the working conditions were declared unfit. They closed for nearly a week while the ventilation system in the kitchen was improved to bring it up to the new code, the department even compensated the workers with an unexpected paid holiday. After they got back, even the cooks got to feel the fresh air! There was also talk, a whispered rumor, of raising the minimum wage. That was something that Mycroft and Vesta, as well as their various colleagues, fervently hoped for.

 

The next day, Mycroft and Joel were sorting through discard racks when Cindy came swooping down on them, looking aghast. “Guys, guys, don't freak out, but the CEO is here making a surprise inspection! Just...be good, all right?” She touched them both confidentially on the arm before dashing off to alert the others. The two men looked at each other, stunned! True, Mycroft had dealt with far more formidable people in his past than the head of a department store. Still, given the pecking order, and what could potentially be at stake for his store, it was an intimidating prospect. His panic didn't last, though. His rapidly-firing brain soon hit upon an opportunity...

“I have an idea,” Mycroft purred, a faraway look in his eyes. One of his and Sherlock's old codes flashed across his brain: _Populace_. He wished his brother was here! He felt strangely bereft at the moment, lonely for his oldest teammate.

“Yeah?” Joel asked, giving his coworker a confused, yet trusting look.

Mycroft had been working at Marks and Spencer for almost a year. In that time, he'd attempted to prune his language of professional jargon, but now, in his distress, it came pouring from him. “Objective: obtain a livable wage. Method: appeal to our chief executive officer's empathy, or, barring that, his sense of reason.” He cast his coworker an apologetic shrug, “Even that's not 100% likely, I know. Still...” he exhaled sharply with determination. “Application: full cultural immersion. Head first. Understood, Agent?” He turned to his comrade with a tone and a carriage that was accustomed to being obeyed.

Joel grinned savagely, “I'm with you, Captain. And if the first, ah, method, doesn't produce results? We go _Newsies_ on his ass?”

Not altogether sure what his partner was suggesting, Mycroft gave him a look of baffled agreement. “Um, sure. I'm going to get him to come home with me.”

“Then tie him up and hold him for ransom?” Joel suggested keenly.

“No! No, not that at all. Although I like the way you think. If I ever get my old life back, I may have a job for you. I want word spread that of everybody who works here, I have the best possible living situation.”

“Gold standard, got it.”

“I don't want any tall tales spread, nothing specific, but if he were to ask anyone here who lives highest on the hog, I want the answer to be me.”

Joel shrugged, going back to sorting clothes and taking an armful to put away. “You might be anyway. Dual income, no kids. You're both well and able-bodied, no student loans.” He sounded perhaps a trifle jealous.

Mycroft took a load of clothes as well, following him. “Still, you'll do it?”

“I got you. I'll pop into the break room and spread it along. So he hears how well you're doing, you invite him over to dinner like in some 70s sitcom, Genevieve kills you...”

Mycroft nods, allowing for that eventuality. “Most likely.”

“I like it. Old fashioned, ridiculously convoluted, sneaky. I'm in.” He finished hanging up the clothes he was carrying and made a beeline for the breakroom.

“Operation: Populace is go,” Mycroft murmured to himself with a smile. He finished clearing up the men's department and went to tidy the clearance racks.

An hour later, a well-dressed older man approached him. Mycroft could smell his power suit a mile away and had to stop himself from recoiling. He approached him with a well-practiced cordial smile.

The stranger read his name tag. “Hello...Mike, is it? Well, I've heard good things about you from your managers. I'm Derek Walsh, CEO of Marks and Spencer. You're a recent acquisition, I understand.”

“I've been here almost a year,” Mycroft protested, not wishing to be underestimated by the Big Boss. “I feel I know my way around.”

“Yes, of course. No offense meant. I'm to understand that you're a bit of a resident success story. Just the sort of thing we need around here. People out there are all clamoring for raises, for higher minimum wages, all that rubbish. If you don't like the wages offered, make something of yourself and get a real job, eh? No offense meant, of course.”

Mycroft bristled, the air around him charged with ozone, he found he instantly hated this thoughtless man. His smile grew more pointed. “Of course. Now, I would be delighted to invite you round to my place for dinner tonight, as a...representative of this branch. “

Mr. Walsh thought it over, then put on a magnanimous, self-satisfied air. “I don't normally do this, but why not? If you've made as much of yourself as they say you have here, it's bound to be good for the public image.”

“With your permission, I ought to call my wife immediately. It's her day off, luckily. She'll want time to prepare for company.”

“Yes, yes, good idea,” Mr. Walsh agreed.

Mycroft took out his phone and took to a nearby alcove. There were a few scattered throughout the sales floor. His fellow associates called them the “phone booths.” Private little nooks, perfect for them to take a moment with their mobiles.

“Genevieve, hi... Look, I'm at work. The store's CEO is here and I just invited him over tonight. This seemed like the perfect way to create the right impression for him.”

Mr. Walsh stood nearby, leaning in slightly to better hear the woman on the other end of the conversation. He heard nothing, however. Vesta was stunned into silence. She didn't miss the use of her alias. It worked on her like a code, it set the tone for the evening ahead.

Mycroft continued hurriedly, “I know what you're thinking of, believe me I know. Just.... Don't trouble yourself too much. I trust you absolutely. You're a master. Whatever's good enough for us is good enough for him.” He looked over at the big boss, who was still irritatingly at his elbow. “Sorry to spring this on you, my dear. I just thought this would be a good opportunity to give him a glimpse into the lives of his staff. See you tonight.”

“Oh, you bastard,” Vesta whispered gleefully, picking up on exactly what he was asking of her. It was almost like having her old job back as his P.A. A perfect reminder of what they once were, what they would always be to each other. They could communicate worlds through a handful of common words and phrases. “You can count on me.”

 

Vesta hung up and heaved a breath. The mission was underway. One positive thing of having such a small living space is that it never took long to tidy. She checked out the community vacuum cleaner from the laundry room and gave the flat a good once-over, made up the bed and adjusted the wardrobe screen as a room divider. Then, she started planning what to cook. It was near the end of their pay periods, so there wasn't a whole lot. Still, she never let that stop her. There was an excellent recipe for Korean-style braised vegetables that they'd tried not too long ago, and she had everything on hand. It was something she'd intended to make again anyway. Her hand hesitated over a wine bottle that she'd been saving for their anniversary, then she grabbed instead at a cheaper white blend instead. She stuck it in the fridge to chill. _Don't go to any trouble, what's good enough for us is good enough for him._ It wasn't that she was trying to skimp, but she and Mycroft both wanted his boss to see what their life typically looked like. It was actually a step up from some days. Vesta then went about deciding what to do for dessert...

 

Joel found Mycroft shortly after he finished talking to Mr. Walsh. “So, what did Genevieve say?”

He shrugged; “It would take more than this to fluster her. Everything is underway. Thank you for your help.”

“Sure thing. The others got into it, too. I think they got what you're trying to do. This is kind of fun! Cloak and dagger sort of thing, I like it! Let me know how it goes, all right?”

Mycroft gave him another sizing-up with his old serpentine smile. “I meant what I said earlier, you know. If I ever get my old life back, I'll look you up if I need undercover assistance.”

This made the younger man look rather awed. “Is this like what you guys used to do, then?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Were you a spy? Was she a spy, too?” Mycroft only shushed him and waved the question away, not answering one way or the other. Joel grinned, touching a finger to his lips in agreement.

At the end of the day and inspection, Derek Walsh found Mycroft in his department. “So, shall we?”

Mycroft looked at his pocket-watch, gave a theatrical reaction of surprise, as if he hadn't been keeping careful track throughout the day. “Ah! How time flies. Certainly. I took the bus here today; shall I give you the address and meet you there?”

“No, no need for that. I'll give you a lift.”

“Oh, good, thank you. Let me just clock out and get my things.”

 

The drive was quiet, apart from the occasional directions to get to his flat. Mycroft wondered to himself what awaited him at home, if Vesta had taken the assignment the way he'd hoped. He was certain she did. She was bound to know just how to play it. She was naturally house-proud, and would have the place looking as nice as she could, but he trusted she wouldn't go to any unnecessary lengths to impress. That wasn't what they were after. It was under the guise of hospitality that they hoped to convey to the man on top that the _best_ that one of his little worker bees could manage...wasn't much.

“Here, right here,” Mycroft directed, pointing his boss's boss's boss into the parking lot. Mr. Walsh looked a bit askance at the block.

“Here?” He looked up and down the street. It was, in his opinion, a dead-end neighborhood. 

With a crocodile smile, Mycroft swept out of the car, tapping his umbrella to the cement like a sorcerer charging his staff. “Here. We're over here in block D, second floor, watch your step.” He felt confident in his mission, and in his partner. Strangely enough, it felt, just for a moment, like his old life again.

Mycroft opened the door and stood aside with his old understated flair. “Here we are, Musgrave Hall,” he declared with dark humor as he slipped out of his shoes. If his father heard him call this place by that name, he would definitely have words with him. Mr. Walsh stepped in, looking around with confused eyes and a wrinkled nose.

“You're joking! _This_ is where you live??”

Vesta emerged from the tiny kitchen. “Yes, it is,” she challenged.

“Nice, isn't it?” Mycroft added, hanging his coat and umbrella up on the wardrobe loading pallet. “Cozy?” He exchanged a meaningful glance with his wife. She gave him a tiny smile of acknowledgment.

“Ah! Oh...sorry,” the businessman uttered lamely. “Derek Walsh,” he introduced, thrusting out his hand.

“Genevieve Musgrave,” she returned, her eyes still glinting icily. “What did you mean by that?”

“Just..surprised, that's all. Everyone at your husband's store seemed to think you had it the best of all of them.”

Vesta nodded sharply, “Well, I think we do. I mean, it's only with the two of us working we can afford something this nice. Mike, won't you come in here and give me a hand?”

Once her husband was shoulder to shoulder with her, she barely audibly whispered, “ _Populace_ , right?” He nodded fluidly with a grin and gave her neck a nuzzle and a kiss.

“Got your Kevlar on under that?” he asked coyly, taking in her outfit. She'd changed into something nice for the occasion, grey linen capris and a light blue and white floral top. He'd wondered what she would opt to wear for this. He was relieved that she didn't overdo it either way, this was the perfect statement. She was obviously dressed up from what she's typically worn as of late, but it wasn't one of her formal dresses. He then set the table, lit a half-burned pillar candle on a saucer at the end of the table, and poured them each a glass of wine. It was in that moment that he realized how lucky it was that Vesta had packed more than two place settings on the day they were disappeared. It was as if, even in a moment of crisis, she anticipated that they might have company over. Everything even matched, good!

Vesta dished up three plates and brought them to the table. Mycroft looked quite pleased. His top boss...looked curious at best. It appeared to be roasted potatoes and carrots in a glossy brown sauce. Just beneath it was a roundish slice of something he couldn't bring himself to name.

“What...what exactly is this?” He asked, prodding the beige thing on his plate.

Vesta answered pleasantly, “Veggie loaf. It's made primarily with sweet potatoes and chickpeas.”

“You're vegetarians?”

Mycroft shrugged, “Not entirely.”

“I cooked everything in beef drippings. I thought that would be a treat,” Vesta admitted.

The CEO looked to his underling for help, but Mycroft deliberately ignored the man's distress. “Thank you, my dear, I knew you'd have no trouble making something special for tonight. Isn't she a marvel, Mr. Walsh? She never lets anything go to waste, prepares for every eventuality. I've always said, she's the reason we get on so comfortably. We certainly couldn't live this well otherwise.”

Vesta smiled at his praise, raising her glass to meet his with matching evil grins. “Flattery. Tsk, tsk, Mycie.” She sipped her wine with an air of utter satisfaction before turning back to her plate.

Mr. Walsh had no idea what to make of this visit. After all he'd heard from the other people at work, he'd expected a much more lavish home than this. Stranger still, his host seemed to believe it himself. Living in utter squalor yet acting like Niles Crane. He finished his dinner quickly. It was admittedly quite good for what it was, but still...“Look, I seem to have had the wrong impression.”

Mycroft drained his glass and set it aside, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Oh?”

“I thought you were the resident success story!”

The former British Government leaned over the table, leering at the man like a vulture investigating a carcass. “No, you thought I would be the one to prove that retail workers are adequately paid, and anyone who complains should 'just get a real job', as you said. This isn't a show. This is our home. This is where and how we live, with a joint income. Now think of the people who work for you who aren't near this fortunate. The ones who have massive outstanding student loans—from trying to 'make something of themselves'—who have debilitating health issues, who aren't in a dual income household. Single parents of multiple children. Think of them for a moment. If this is what we,” he gestured emphatically to his wife and himself, “can afford to get by on, just think of the ones who aren't so lucky.” Mycroft surprised even himself with this speech. He would never have considered such people in his previous life. They'd never appeared on his radar. If his former self had heard him talk now, he would have been shocked that he would choose to advocate on behalf of the less fortunate.

Mr. Walsh was stunned. He looked around the modest flat once more, this time he saw their makeshift furniture that was made of loading pallets, the bareness of their Spartan quarters, the simple meal that was specially made for company. When cooking in leftover beef drippings was considered a treat, fit to make an occasion of things. He shook his head in bewilderment. He'd never stopped to think of his staff as people, as people with real lives and homes and families. He never cared to find out about them. They were just faceless figures, numbers on a sheet, that just vanish in a puff of smoke when the work day was over. It was an eye-opening experience that was a long time coming.

“Genevieve has been crucial to our survival, from day one she's reminded me how lucky we are, how fortunate we are to have what little we have. I didn't like the reminder, either, but maybe on your way out tomorrow, you could ask a few other workers how they're getting by. If they have enough at the end of the month. If their paychecks come anywhere near covering their living expenses. And these are good workers! Good people! They're not the imaginary shiftless layabouts the wealthy moan about when they gripe about the working class. Overall, we like the job, we just can't get by on £7.50 an hour. No one can support themselves, let alone a family, on these wages.”

“You could change peoples' lives,” Vesta added. “It would mean the difference between lying awake at night, worrying about rent and knowing that there was enough. It would put meat on the table, quite literally.” She smiled at her husband and put a hand over his, not missing that he'd said we like the job.

“So, you see, your information was correct. Genevieve and I are doing quite well compared to most of your workers. This is as close to the gold standard that you'll see.”

They sat in breathless silence after this bombshell. Vesta refilled their wine glasses. Mr. Walsh wondered then, if it wasn't for him, if they'd save it for tomorrow? He shook himself and accepted his refilled glass. 

A timer went off, and Vesta sprang to her feet. She took something out of the oven with a pleased sound.

“You always act so surprised,” Mycroft remarked dryly. “When was the last time something you cooked didn't turn out?”

“I know, I know, dear. But this time it's for company.” After some clinking and general maneuvering, Vesta returned to the table with three puddings. “Strawberry clafoutis, ” she announced with a flair.

“Gesundheit,” Mycroft muttered as he dragged his fork through the soft cakey topping and into the cooked fruit beneath.

“Silly,” Vesta chided. “I'm classically trained, and you know full well.”

At the end of the meal, Mr. Walsh shook hands with each of his hosts. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. And...you've given me something to think about. Good night.”

 

He had barely gotten to where he parked his car, when a black luxury vehicle pulled up next to him and beckoned him in. He pointed to himself questioningly, then found himself ushered into the strange car by a heavily muscled man. In the back seat sat an older woman of unflappable poise. She smiled casually at him and gestured he sit next to her. He found himself obeying...

“Don't look so frightened. Silly. I believe you and I have things to discuss. I know who you are. You can call me Agent Thames.”


	5. ...just before dawn

Vesta stormed into work one night, obviously put out. She supposed she should be glad to get extra hours, but getting called in on her requested night off was irritating. She had gone through all of the proper avenues, getting it in writing, reminding the chef and manager multiple times, but no one could have predicted her station-mate getting a sudden injury on the job.

“I'm sorry, darling. I had such a nice night planned, too,” she'd sighed regretfully to her husband.

“I suppose it was too good to be true, that we'd get to have our anniversary together. Did they know that that's what it was for?”

Vesta had nodded, “Yes, they did, I'm sure I'll get some sympathy out of them tonight, and it's only a Wednesday...still...” she grumbled. “Don't worry about waiting up for me. We'll celebrate next Wednesday.”

“Can't,” Mycroft shrugged shortly. “They just declared a mandatory store meeting that day. Probably because of the stunt we pulled with the CEO. I just hope I'm not sacked for this.”

 

So it was with a heavy load of bitterness in her heart that Vesta Holmes took her station that night. She glowered at everyone she passed, as if she wanted them all to know how _very_ put out she was!

Fortunately, it was a light night. They were allowed to play the radio as they worked, and the novelty of actual breathable, movable air was still fresh for all of them. It could have been worse. It was right about eight o'clock when the DJ started taking requests.

“I've got a call in from Mike, for his wife Genevieve on their anniversary. He's sorry she got called in to work on her day off. Here's a song he hopes she'll recognize...” the DJ announced in a cheesy tone. Vesta stopped wiping out her pan and snapped to attention, and the radio started playing David Cassidy's “I Think I Love You”. Vesta squealed happily and lurched over the line to turn up the volume. Several people groaned in protest and were silenced with a single look. “Hey! This is from my husband, this is our song! Shut up, everyone and let me listen!”

And so it came to pass that the entire kitchen remained as silent as a church while the put-upon saute cook rapturously listened to her dedication. How it brought it all back: the shy, awkward night, poor Mr. Cassidy getting kidnapped and forced to play their venue, because it was the only way her future husband could think of to adequately return her feelings. A Holmes could never do anything small or ordinary. 

That night, Vesta went home, not feeling like she'd been run over by a bus, and with a complimentary serving of pasta with sausage and goat's cheese for her troubles. Everyone had wished her a happy anniversary and let her be the first one out the door. It was a fine, cool evening as she sat by her bus stop, wolfing down her pasta, feeling somehow content with how the evening had gone. Once she got home, she sat down on the bed next to her husband and stroked his hair, his shoulders. She bent down and kissed him, nuzzling his neck with a naughty giggle. Mycroft woke up slightly and smiled at her.

“They played our song,” she murmured to him. “Thank you.”

“I might just get to like it at this rate,” he answered.

She spritzed herself over with her floral body spray and changed into her pjs, sliding in next to her husband. He grunted shortly in acknowledgment and draped an arm around her.

 

It didn't happen overnight, it took several months of deliberations and debates, but it was finally brought up at Parliament to officially raise the national minimum wage. By then, the Holmeses had been in exile for a year and a half. They had since resigned themselves to the unhappy thought that this might just be their life indefinitely. Vesta had already forced herself to forget her old life, to pretend that that had all been a dream or a vivid flight of fancy. Eighteen months of being worked to the bone was telling on both of them.

Then, one day, Mycroft saw a gaggle of his coworkers milling by the time clock. He pushed to get through. “One side, one side! Some of us have to clock in or we'll be late!” Then, he saw it! The notice that stopped everyone in their tracks!

“£10/hr...” he whispered, unable to process it right away. He read the whole thing just to make sure. “Effective immediately per this pay period, applicable to the next paycheck to be issued on Tuesday, all employee's hourly wage has been raised to £10/hr.” It had been so long since he'd even dared dream of that much money! “£10/hr!” Was the exclamation on everyone's lips. The group crowded around the notice board fell into spontaneous hugging. Mycroft Holmes, who didn't even endure his own mother to hug him, found himself getting hugged by everyone in sight. “Oh! Oh, this calls for something special! I know just what to do!” Amazing, _this_ must be what it was like in his wife's head! He immediately started planning a menu to commemorate the occasion. This called for something spectacular! The next instant, he knew just what he would make for them, he'd recreate their first meal together! He remembered it vividly, she'd made enough of a fuss over it. How could he forget?

Joel saw how avid his friend was looking, “You've already got plans on how to spend it, don't you?”

Mycroft let out an evil laugh that would have done Charles Gray proud. “Yes, I believe I do. Tonight, I'm going to surprise her.”

“Gonna cook for her again?”

“Mm-hmm!” he affirmed happily.

“Gonna make Spam and Beans Bolognese again?”

Mycroft chortled, “No, but I've made it a few times since you gave me the recipe. Did I tell you? Her dearly departed father used to make something like that when she was little. I was actually able to give her a taste of home a time or two.” He couldn't help but sound rather proud of himself for being able to do at least that much.

“Oh, really? That's sweet. So, what's cooking, good-looking?” He asked conspiratorially clapping his hands together.

“Does Aldi still have those bacon-wrapped sirloin fillets on special?”

Joel thought, “They just put out a new ad, but they usually have them for pretty cheap, they're normally no more than £3-4 for a pack of two.

Mycroft nodded, working to set the new display. “It's March, asparagus should be in season, inexpensive this time of year. I still can't afford real crab...”

“Could do pollack,” Joel suggested. “'S what they always use for fake crab. They just tint half of it red to make it look right.”

“Yes...” Mycroft murmured. “I'd want to do it right, but no sense breaking the bank, even if we've come into a bit of luck. So £3 for the steaks, £1 for the asparagus, eggs and butter, another £3? Goat's cheese, crescent roll dough in place of puff pastry...wines...I couldn't get my hands on the wines I served that night.” He groaned with disappointment. Still, there were options to make do. “We're never getting our old life back...I'm fairly certain of that by now, but I can at least give her a taste of it.”

His companion nodded in sympathy, patting the taller man's shoulder. He was the only one who knew this much about Mycroft's actual predicament. All that he'd told anyone was that he was in Witness Protection. Only Joel had heard him mention the hope of getting to go back, however remote. “You're going to do something special! However you manage it, Genevieve is going to love it!” Joel put on the air of a gossip-starved busybody, determined to cheer his friend up. From what snippets he'd gleaned from his taciturn coworker, he'd come to _ship_ Mike and Genevieve. “Are you recreating your first date? I should do something like that. Treat Sandra to something...meaningful.”

“Sentiment,” Mycroft uttered disdainfully, as if only he were allowed to indulge in such flights of whimsy.

The promise of increased pay worked as a great morale booster for the staff. Things were as busy as ever, but there was an impenetrable aura of happiness throughout the store that even the foulest customer couldn't break through. Mycroft got through his shift with a light heart as well, feeling especially satisfied that he helped get the ball rolling. It took a while to work through, anything involving legal red tape and corporate whining would, but it didn't take nearly as long as it could have! He spared a thought for Agent Thames; she must have been behind this resolution as well. Mycroft wished he could see her again, just once, to thank her for doing the job so well, for using her position to help others in ways he'd never thought to do.

The rest of the work day vanished in a blur. There were more triumphant hugs all around as the evening shift got in and the morning people clocked out. Mycroft ran to the store to get what he needed, then he went scurrying home, floating on an elated cloud.

Vesta was home, it was her day off and she was in bed when her husband entered with a heavy-looking grocery bag. She stood up with wide eyes. This was most unusual! First off, he seldom did the shopping, maybe a third of the time at most. Secondly, when he did, it was for one or two things only, like bread or milk or something simple like that.

She rose, dropping her tablet onto the covers, before Mycroft had other ideas! He spread out his arms, herding her back behind the room divider like a depraved goose! “Ah-ah-ah!” He chided playfully, yet firmly. “Don't spoil the surprise! You haven't started anything for dinner yet, have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good! Good...” he purred silkily. “Now, just go back to your book. Nothing to see here.”

Vesta quirked a grin; he was doing the absolute _worst_ job of being inconspicuous. She blamed it on being out of practice. Or maybe he was just enjoying himself too much to care. Either way, he was about as unobtrusive as a flock of flamingos crossing against the light.

After he got everything unpacked, he was back beside her on the bed in a flash. “I can't keep it to myself any longer, my dear. Something wonderful has happened!”

Vesta sat up straight again, clutching her husband's arms. “Are we going home?” Long-dead hope sprang up behind her eyes once more.

It was hard to have to disappoint her, to tell her no. He tried to let her down easily. “Not...yet? No. I'm sorry. Not that good of news, I suppose. Still...” Mycroft gave her a moment to process her disappointment and to be ready to hear his news. “They raised the national minimum wage!”

“Really?! Oh, that's excellent!”

“Isn't it, though? So, tonight, we're celebrating. I picked up a few special things at the store. Maybe I could convince you to go for a walk at some point.”

Vesta thought about this agreeably, then her eyes lit up. “We both get paid next week, right? How much cash do we have until then?” She hopped up and grabbed for her purse, burrowing through her billfold while her husband did the same. “You just bought groceries? Is there enough to last until then?”

Here Mycroft paused to count off meals on his fingers. Six days for two people, one to two meals a day...He looked at their inventory sheet and counted through again. “I believe so. Here.” He gave her a few ones from his wallet. “Oh, I know what you're going to do.”

Vesta grinned and clasped Mycroft's hands. “I am doing the laundry. In the actual laundry room!”

“Not in the sink.”

“Not in the sink,” she agreed happily, giggling at the novelty. 

This turned out to be the perfect way for Vesta to give Mycroft his needed secrecy. She took the heaping laundry basket, the cash, and her tablet to hide out in the laundry facility for the rest of the day. He was determined to surprise her, and she was inclined to let him! Since their exile, he'd gotten quite good at basic cookery, and felt reasonably comfortable in recreating their first meal together. It wouldn't be perfect, of course, substitutions had to come into play, but he hoped they wouldn't lessen the final effect. He hoped—hoped!—that it would be good enough. He limited it, though, for his own sake. Entree, cheese course, dessert. The first thing he started was the chocolate mousse. He cheated considerably for the sake of simplicity and cost. He started with a box of raspberry gelatin mix, made it and set it aside, while he made chocolate custard from another mix. He beat the two together and folded it with whipped cream to make a chocolate raspberry mousse and set it to chill. Next, he took the little log of honeyed goat's cheese and put it in the freezer to harden. So far, he was pretty satisfied with how things were going. He'd gotten a bottle of cabernet sauvignon to go with dinner, and a bottle of sparkling wine to go with dessert. Not the sought-after Clavelin, like they had their first night together, or Vesta's favorite port, but he still had to be responsible. No sense going too overboard.

Vesta had just finished folding the last of the laundry and had it stacked up in the basket to bring back upstairs, when she got a text, saying it was safe to come up. She opened the door, set the basket down, and found that their bedroom corner had been made up into the Diogenes Club, but it was roped off with two ties looped together.

“Going to the club after dinner, dear?”

Mycroft filled their wine glasses with a satisfied smile. “I thought we could.” He pulled out a seat for his wife and lit a candle on the table. He moved with such fluid grace, he was practically dancing! “Now, as much as I wish I could do a full seven course dinner for you, we'll have to make do with three.”

With wide eyes and a soft giggle, Vesta swatted at her husband. There had been days when “dinner” was a slice of bread and peanut butter for each of them, with milk if they were lucky. This...whatever he'd managed, already felt lavish! He brought their plates out and Vesta let out a sharp gasping cry of recognition!

“You made steak Oscar style?” She examined it, it was perfect! The bearnaise sauce was smooth and unbroken, asparagus tips circled the plate, she cut into the steak...and looked at him admiringly. “Medium-rare. I'm impressed!”

Unlike the first night they ate this together, he needed no urging to eat what was in front of him. Since their fall, he wished he could go back and slap his former self for his ridiculous obsession with self-denial. The meals alone that he'd missed out on, for the sake of his figure! Shameful! Tonight, he ate voraciously. “I had to cheat a little,” Mycroft confessed apologetically. 

“The crab,” Vesta agreed, dragging her fork through the bright yellow sauce and spearing a large flake of pollack. She popped it in her mouth with a sultry smile. She closed her eyes and quivered in her seat, as she had that night all those years ago. “Mmm. Good,” she groaned dramatically. Mycroft smiled, pleased that he could give her a proper foodgasm. He felt a pang of sentiment, realizing that he missed the cooks, Roger and Jamie; and Alistair, the butler; and Angela, their weekend maid...he realized he'd missed them for some time, and not just for the jobs they did for him. They'd been people in his life. Recreating a moment from his old life really brought that thought to the fore.

When they cleaned their plates, Mycroft took them to the kitchen, rinsed them off, and plated the cheese course. Honey-whipped goat cheese baked in a crescent roll, drizzled with balsamic vinegar.

There were tears in Vesta's eyes as she looked at the plate. All that her husband had done, it was amazing! He remembered everything! Like when he phoned in a song request on their anniversary, the little things he did to take care of her, forcing her to take the larger portion to make up for all of the times that she'd skimped herself. She wished the whole of England could see the sort of man that she knew him to be. Kind, thoughtful, generous, these words had never applied to him outside their household.

He sat across from her, looking so pleased with himself. It wasn't a bad approximation. They finished the cheese course and were onto the dessert. He filled their wine glasses with a sparkling pink wine. Vesta's eyes went wide, with just a touch of disapproval at this expense. It was a serious splurge for him to get two bottles in one shopping trip, for one meal. Still, the promise of a more substantial paycheck on the horizon made him feel extravagant.

They spooned up their chocolate raspberry mousse, making positively indecent faces at each other as they suggestively licked their spoons. It was a perfect meal, a perfect celebration.

They retired to the “Diogenes Club” for chocolate truffles and the last thimbleful of his Scotch. He passed her a note.

_Guess how much all of that cost._

Vesta read it with a grin, thinking, doing the math in her head. She then shrugged and passed the paper back to him.

He wrote on it, then passed it back. _£18._ They both exchanged _wow_ faces. They'd never spent so much money on one meal before. All that had been cooked was gone in one sitting. They hadn't even bothered saving any for tomorrow. It was positively hedonistic!

After sitting quietly, reading cozily together for another hour, Mycroft flipped the sign down and stood up, stretching his back.

“Thank you for...for tonight,” Vesta breathed, still in awe over their good fortune. “It was wonderful. Just wonderful!”

“This was me saying thank you,” her husband explained. “For all you've done for us. I keep looking back at how...utterly clueless I was when all this started. You took care of me when I was at my weakest. I want to return the favor.” Then, he waved that last notion aside, violently. “It's not even about _repayment,_ it's...I want to take care of you, too. And not because it's somehow _expected_ of me as far as traditional gender roles go or whatever such nonsense. It's because I want to. Why is that, do you suppose? What causes that?”

Vesta stood and approached him from behind, as he threw his head back and stared at the ceiling in his bafflement. She crept up on him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his back. “It's called being married. It's called being a good partner.”

“Is that what that is? Hmm. So, that's good, then?”

“Very good.”

Then, just like that, their date night was over. The two of them put away the folded laundry and cleaned up in the kitchen. Vesta insisted on washing the dishes because Mycroft had gone to all the work of preparing the meal, but he still dried them and put everything away. It felt later than it was, despite the days getting a little longer with the promise of spring. 

They heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. They sprang apart, ready for action. Then, a familiar voice cut through solid walls--

“Mikey! Mikey!!”

“Oh, god, it's Mummy,” he groaned. He brought a hand over his eyes and down his face. Vesta scurried to answer the door.

“Mummy!” she exclaimed happily as the motherly woman was admitted into their humble home. Mummy Holmes dropped her handful of shopping bags at the door and gave each of them each a hug and kiss. “Oh...thank goodness you're with him. Thank you for taking such good care of my boy. Mikey...I'm so happy that you're safe. You know I worry about you! Thank goodness for Eurus, telling us where you were. By the way, you were right. She's insane. Thank you for... _handling_ her up until now. She _frightens_ me! She's my baby girl, but...she's _chilling,_ isn't she?”

Mycroft flinched, he was never expecting to be so absolved of his treatment of his mad sister. “Yes, I quite agree. Mummy...?” He struggled, still shocked by her sudden arrival. Fortunately, his wife didn't miss a beat. She went straight into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Mummy followed her with her shopping bags.

“Now, dear, these are for you two. I know you both must be working awfully hard, so I thought having something ready for a few meals would be nice.” She slid a whole glass baking dish of some sort of baked pasta in the fridge. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can pop _these_ in the freezer and take them out as a surprise later on!” She set a couple of foil-wrapped packages, neatly labeled in her handwriting: cookies  & cream cake and chocolate turtle cake. 

“God, you remembered both our favorites!” Vesta keened rapturously. “Thank you, Mummy,” she said in her normal tone, still quivering with emotion. It was such a relief to see her again after all this time. While nobody could ever truly replace her mother, Mummy Holmes went a long way to filling that role. She was warmth and comfort itself, and Vesta had missed her badly during this ordeal. She never burdened Mycroft with this, guilty as he always was about involving her in the first place, but being isolated from her Holmes family was almost like losing hers all over again. 

The tea kettle went off and she made a full pot, mentally dragging Mycroft into the dining room. He'd been hanging back awkwardly, feeling as though this was just too much for him to process right now. Still, he obeyed.

Mummy pouted at her son. “You look awfully thin, Mycie.”

“We're doing better than we were,” he assured her. “They just raised the minimum wage. We're going to be all right.” It took Mycroft a moment to register how strange this must sound to his mother.

“Nonsense, darling,” she dismissed loudly. “How much longer until this is over? When are you coming home?”

“England hasn't fallen,” Mycroft reminded her, and himself. “She stands firm, yet. I honestly don't know, Mummy. It's not for me to decide. _They'll_ decide when I've had enough.”

Mrs. Holmes shuddered in her seat and poured tea. “This was your M16 lot, isn't it? One of your little hazing games with your creepy old goons?”

Mycroft started, nearly knocking over his cup. “How did you—?” then he cut himself off, remembering that she was, in fact, his mother, and somewhere between him and Eurus on the intellectual abilities scale. Sherlock didn't fall far behind, despite what he often told him. “Yes, Mummy,” he muttered like a sulky child. He added two sugars and a great dollop of milk to his tea before slurping it petulantly. The two Mrs. Holmeses grinned at each other across the table before breaking into giggles at Mycroft's expense.

“Oh, before I forget, somebody that Sherlock calls Agent Thames sends her regards. Does that mean anything to either of you?”

“Yes, she's been, ah, filling in for me while I'm away. Doing a good job of it, it seems to me. I chose her myself. Look, Mummy, it's...it's good to see you. You know I worry about you and Dad.” He admitted this grudgingly, painfully, having to acknowledge _sentiment_ to the woman who raised him.

His mother patted his shoulder and gave his hand a squeeze. “I worry about all of you, too. I...do hope you've been...all right,” she confessed faintly. For a moment, she appeared to have slipped off into her own head, playing through all of the probable possibilities that might have befallen these two. Vesta watched, wondering if her mother-in-law had her own mind palace, and what it looked like. Still, she didn't go for the theatrics that Sherlock usually displayed. Even Mycroft tended to be rather _obvious_ about it. Their mother had better social skills than her sons, and was able to employ similar mental prowess without being overly grandiose about it. Mummy looked sadly at them both, analyzing all of the little details that she could see so plainly on them. “You've been underfed, and sick,” she remarked sadly.

“Everyone gets colds or the flu,” Mycroft protested against his mother's sympathy. “Vesta has this remedy she gives us both to get us through the day. It's horrible, but it works well enough.”

They finished their tea and Mummy looked between the two of them. “So, may I have the grand tour?”

Mycroft covered his face, embarrassed. “You've had it, this is all there is.”

“Oh, pish-posh! Go on, you've both got a lot to be proud of. I'd like to see it all from your perspective.”

Vesta rose, eager to show her around, with her husband drearily lagging behind. “Here's the kitchen.”

“Oh!” Mummy exclaimed, looking at the pans hanging from the ceiling. “You saved my mother's set of copper! Wonderful! I'm so glad!”

Vesta whipped around with a sharp look for her husband. “You didn't tell me these were your gran's!”

“I didn't know,” Mycroft shrugged broadly. “I just knew we always had them in storage and nobody was using them, so when I moved out, _they_ shipped me off with them!”

“To keep them in the family, Mycie,” Mummy explained. “Honestly, I assumed you'd at least _try_ to cook for yourself before you went and hired staff.”

Mycroft's surly teenage inner self nearly came out with a defensive “I don't cook” but that was clearly not the case. That very night he'd made an ambitious dinner that was essentially a culinary mating dance. He'd learned a great deal from sheer necessity. Vesta beamed at her beloved cookware; they'd grown even more dear to her now that she knew they were a family heirloom. It made her feel like she was a real part of the Holmes family.

Mummy gave her daughter-in-law another hug. “I'm so happy you brought it with you. It's been in the family for three generations, now it's yours. And you've taken such good care of it, too! I can tell you use it nearly every day, but it still sparkles! I'm glad you're getting use out of it.”

“Vesta was very practical when I gave her the news that we had to leave. She had everything we could possibly need loaded into the car while I was still sulking in the shower. She didn't ask a million questions, she just _acted._ Marvelous,” Mycroft praised.

“You two are so good at looking after each other,” Mrs. Holmes observed. She gave her son a friendly swat, “Even you! I know you're happiest when you've got someone to care for. You're a natural at it. You just don't like it when people notice. If we were Scottish and superstitious, I'd think you'd been left by Brownies. Always busy when nobody's watching.”

Mycroft was obviously pleased with his mother's praise, which had been hard enough to earn over the years, but he slunk away from these cordial accusations. The kitchen was feeling awfully crowded. He took a step out into the main room. “Having me around doesn't necessarily guarantee anything good for anybody,” he remarked self-consciously. “Look what happened to Eurus.”

“I'm sorry for what I said before. What happened to your sister wasn't your fault.”

Mycroft made a noise in his throat, his expression unbelieving. As much as he pretended not to have feelings, his mother's earlier accusations had hurt him. She'd been furious when she was told that her daughter was still alive and hidden from her for the past 30 years. Words had been said...harsh words...As much as he wanted her forgiveness, he had trouble swallowing it. He didn't think he could stand disappointing her like that ever again.

Vesta was also ready to head her guilty husband off at the pass. She leaned in close, drew him aside, and whispered,“What happened to Anthea wasn't your fault, either.”

“DON'T say that name!” He growled under his breath, snapping to attention, his eyes blazing. “You know better than that. Those are fighting words.”

Vesta stood firm with her arms crossed over her chest as she stared her husband down. “Not every mishap that befalls one of your circle is your fault. You do more good than harm, if you ask me.”

The former British Government scrunched his eyes shut against the wave of self-loathing, when his mother slipped her hand into his. “There, there, Mycie. You do your best.”

“I must be very lacking, then,” he growled, turning her own words back at her. There was nothing to be said about that.

Vesta could tell that her husband needed to be buoyed up, so she dragged Mummy into the screened-off bedroom. “He made these!” She gestured to the bed and the partition. “Before that, we were sleeping on the floor in a pile of blankets. This was a _huge_ improvement,” she gushed.

Mummy examined the bed and the shelves and screen, quite impressed at her son's resourcefulness. “Oh, this is very nice! Well done, dear! Much better for your back, I'd imagine.”

“It's still just a heap of discarded boxes,” Mycroft groused.

“That you made use of. It's no small thing to be able to see the use of things in unlikely places. Your father is good at that, too. I remember, after...after the house burned down...” her voice shook as she recalled what her daughter had done at the tender age of five. “He was a marvel. Remember Myc? He salvaged that big old box of his father's camping stuff and we all nestled up together. Sherlock was so little, he didn't really comprehend, and still traumatized after what happened to his poor little friend, he would have been so frightened.”

Mycroft actually smiled at that morbid memory, “Yes, but Dad made a game out of it.”

“That was the last time I held Eurus in my arms,” Mummy remembered grimly. “I still can't believe...what a _monster_ my own little girl is. I think I knew then, I knew that that was goodbye. I must sound like a terrible mother, dears, but as awful as it was to imagine that she'd died as Rudy said she had...you were right. That was still kinder than seeing her like this, than knowing...everything.”

It was then that Mycroft did something completely unexpected. He took his mother in his arms and comforted her. It was obvious that these weren't his natural inclinations or impulses, but he was making the effort. He knew his mother needed this more than he needed personal space. He could endure some discomfort for her sake. She hugged back tightly. “My good boy,” she whispered.

They showed her the rest of their little shoe box flat, and she was amazed at all of the little homey touches that they'd managed. Mycroft and Vesta spent most of it bragging each other up. It did his mother's heart good to hear how much Mycroft had learned and did. He'd grown so much. They took such good care of each other. It almost seemed like a game, trying to outdo each other. The most nurturing competition she had ever heard of! All in all, it was a nice visit and when it wound down she hugged and kissed each of them again on the way out.

“Now, you be good, both of you! Let me know when all this business is over, won't you?”

“Of course we will,” Mycroft assured her, enduring yet another of her hugs. “Tell Dad not to worry..” he trailed off awkwardly, not sure how to adequately voice what he was thinking. Luckily, his right hand jumped in.

“Give him our love, okay? And Sherlock.”

“I will, dear, I will.”

“Tell Eurus we say hello, too,” Mycroft added. “I hope she's behaving herself.” He fumbled a bit, reluctantly. “Give her my love. She's a lot of things, but she's family. Even Vesta says so.”

Mummy nodded, admittedly a little tearfully, and left.

 

Sherlock sat in a sinister-looking conference hall with a number of besuited old men. He smiled cheerily at them, completely unintimidated by the spectacle. “I have a proposal, a wager, if you will.”

“A wager?” One of the men repeated curiously, adjusting his glasses.

“You plan on releasing my brother sometime in the near future. I have a bet that you won't be able to resist.

“Oh, you do, do you?” A pompous-looking man queried.

“Do you have odds on the first thing Mycroft Holmes is going to purchase once his wealth is restored?”

“Yes, we do. We have a whole chart,” a man chuckled comfortably. It had been one of the sources for entertainment among M16. It was just the thing to stimulate the jaded old shadow government officials.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in thought, pouting over them with a secret smile as the chart was brought before him. He read it carefully. The most popular bet was on new suits and shoes, or a day at the salon for some in-depth preening. Something was missing.“What are your odds that he'll buy something for someone else?”

“Someone else?”

“What are the odds on an unselfish act?”

The men in the room all started laughing. Some slapped the table as if that was the best joke they'd ever heard. “Your brother? An unselfish act? Mr. Holmes...I will give you excellent odds on that. I'd set it at 100:1.”

Sherlock quirked his lips and reached for his wallet. He wrote out a cheque, and slid it across the table. “I take the bet.”

The man who took his cheque stared in bafflement. “Why?”

“Oh, what can I say, I love a long shot.” And with that, he swept on his coat and strode out.

 

Early one morning in late August, Mycroft woke to the sound of his phone ringing. “Yes, hello?”

“Hello, Mike--”

“Look!” Mycroft cut off the man on the other end. “I've been covering for people all week, I've put in ten days in a row, and this is _my bloody day off!_ If one more person calls in with the brown bottle flu and expects me to cover for them, they are _gravely mistaken!_ ” Then, he stopped himself, catching his breath. “All right, all right, is it Kristina? Her daughter's dance recital was today, wasn't it? I'll...I'll do it, but you've got to promise me a real weekend. I want Wednesday and Thursday off to spend with my wife, understand?! I feel like I haven't seen her in a month. And I want my time and a half, and an extra long lunch break for this!”

There was a long silence on the other end. Then, the man spoke again. This time it registered to his waking brain. It was Sherlock. “Well, are you done making your demands? Or is there more? Your own parking spot? Employee of the month?” Sherlock sniggered, then went back to business. “Mycroft, it's over. You and Vesta have been reinstated. Everything has been restored to you.”

“Sherlock!” He gasped. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “And good news, dear brother: you still have the day off. We'll be right over to help you move out and back in. You'll be given a recovery period to get briefed and then...back to normal. Neat, don't you think?”

“Oh, thank goodness. Now look, when you come, do try to be quiet. Vesta didn't get to sleep until three in the morning. I want her to get as much rest as she can. Wait, 'we'? Who's 'we'? Oh god...” it dawned on him then that he meant to bring his usual gang of rabble.

“All right, all right, we'll be quiet,” Sherlock agreed. “See you very soon.”

Far off in a secluded room, the most powerful people in the country gathered around a computer screen. It was pulled up to Mycroft's bank information. It was unlocked and everyone was curious what his first purchase would be. Then, something pinged, a number blinked...Everyone gasped! 

Mycroft had the urge to jump up and cry out in triumph; he held back, though. Instead, he paced the room determinedly. He tapped in another number into his phone. “Yes, hello? Do you deliver? Ah, good. Look, I have a moving party coming here this morning. I'd like to order a large boxed jug of coffee to go. What kinds do you have brewing today? Hmm... Can you fill it three quarters with Kenya, one quarter Brazil? It's my wife's favorite. Also, I'm going to need a dozen doughnuts and a dozen assorted pastries. Select most of them at random, but I need two pain au chocolat in a separate box. Oh, let's see, what time is it now? 8:15? You can send it on over around...9? Yes, that should be fine. Can you have it ready by then? Thank you, thank you so much. You've been most helpful. Okay, what's the total?” There was a pause, he chuckled darkly to himself, a smile splitting his face from sheer pleasure. Even more fun that dropping that much money at once was knowing how much his moving team, and his wife in particular, would enjoy this treat he'd arranged. He felt like a depraved Father Christmas. “Good. And add on a 50% tip for yourself. Can you do that? Yes, 50. Yes, I understand. All right, excellent, see you very soon.”

Everyone at the Diogenes Club who was watching the big screen, in utter disregard to the club rules, cried out. Anyone who hadn't been riveted by the proceedings glowered at them. The guilty parties all looked as if they'd been caught in public with no clothes on. They quickly attempted to compose themselves. They selected a spokesperson to send Sherlock the news. They looked positively outraged with this outcome. None of them could have predicted it. They'd tapped his phone call to Sherlock; there had been no indication, nothing that would suggest he'd planned to do this!

Sherlock, John, and Mary arrived soon after the bakery order was filled. Mycroft had poured out coffee for everybody and had already started packing things up. The moving party kicked into high gear once Vesta was awake. It was hard to see what pleased her more: having her friends here at last, that Mycroft had ordered her favorite coffee and breakfast pastries, or that they had finally gotten their lives back and were going home!

Once they were packed up and the flat was _surgically_ cleaned, Mycroft and Vesta checked out with the leasing office. They were finished by noon. Most people would call it a coincidence that they were leaving exactly two years to the day from when they arrived, on the very day that their lease was up, but Mycroft knew better than to believe in coincidences.

Mycroft and Vesta were starting to feel tired out by all of the excitement. Their caffeine and adrenaline high was wearing off. On the way home, Vesta and Mycroft stopped in to their respective workplaces, put in their resignations, and went about it as efficiently as possible. Both of them had been assaulted by hugs of farewell and wishes of good luck. Mycroft slyly slipped one of his business cards into Joel's pocket and slapped him cordially on the shoulder on the way out. Joel took it out and examined it. It was pure white and contained only a phone number and the letters M.H.

“We'll be in touch.”

Their other coworkers received similar “farewells”. Vesta paid Cricket back £50 for the time he gave her £5, when things looked bleakest. She also paid for everyone on the line to have a meal on the house for a month, and put in an order to improve their break area. Up until now, it had only been a few milk crates for them to sit on in the back by the dumpsters. She bought them a new patio set, and pushed the dumpsters further back into an enclosure.

Mycroft made a few calls to the right people to develop a clothing line that was sturdy, attractive, and inexpensive to buy. He named it _Jen/Jents_. He'd learned first-hand how difficult it was to adhere to a workplace dress code on the wages they were paid. He looked forward to being part of this project!

They pulled up their old drive and were ushered into their home. Everything had been prepared for them. It was a good thing that John, Mary, and Sherlock were escorting them, or it would have been too easy for them to be overwhelmed. John and Mary, especially, were primed to keep excitable people calm and directed.

The household staff came forward in a formal welcoming ritual. Vesta threw away all illusions of decorum when she dashed at them and hugged each of them.

“Oh, I missed you!”

“We missed you, too. It's good to be back,” Alistair, the butler replied.

“Oh! Same!” She gushed ineloquently. It was then that Vesta lost all control of herself. She broke down crying hysterically.

“Hey, miss, it's all right,” Roger, the chef, coaxed her gently. “You're home. It's over. Let us know if there's anything you're hungry for, okay?” They exchanged a soft laugh over this. She nodded weakly. “I bet you have some new ideas, after having been back in the trenches for that long.” He gave her a thoughtful look, as if he was sizing her up. “You held it together really well. I'm impressed. And now it's my turn to impress you. It's time for someone to take care of you, now.”

Vesta couldn't argue with that. 

Mycroft had greeted the staff as well, if not as exuberantly as his wife, but it was enough in his own way. He shook hands with each of them, looking truly happy to be home at last. “Thank you all for coming back,” he told them, looking around at them all. “I, ah...I missed you as well.”

“Your beds have been made up,” Angela announced. “Everything is in readiness.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied sincerely. “I think we both need a rest.”

It only took a few more trips for John, Mary, and Sherlock to bring in the Holmeses things and put them away. 

“Rest up today, brother mine,” Sherlock rumbled smoothly. “Agent Thames will brief you and Vesta tomorrow.”

 

And rest they did. After a quick lunch, they retired to their respective, separate bedrooms. After a good deal of shifting around, rolling over, they finally got comfortable enough to fall asleep. Mycroft had heard it from his agent days, and from Sherlock after his mission overseas, people who come home from those kinds of ordeals complain that their beds are too soft, too comfortable. Now he knew what they meant. Also...the bed simply felt _empty _without his wife beside him, it was too big, the covers smelled too clean. Still, his mental and physical exhaustion won out, and he was able to sleep.__

__The next morning, they were brought breakfast in bed: crepes with strawberries and whipped cream, poached eggs, turkey sausage, fresh-squeezed orange juice and their own private blend of coffee. The cooks must have thought that they needed feeding up. It was like heaven._ _

__They both took their time in their private bathrooms, enjoying the hot water as long as they could, appreciating the water pressure. It had been two years. They'd almost forgotten what this was like. Delightful._ _

__Once they were fed and clean and preened, dressed in their old business attire, looking their very best, they met on the landing. Both of them had their umbrella hooked over their arm, with a monogrammed handkerchief peeking out of their front pockets._ _

__They were met by a surprise at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock was waiting for them, snitching a nectarine out of a fruit basket that sat on the table. “Oh, good, you're looking yourselves again. Come, Agent Thames is waiting.”_ _

__Vesta took Mycroft's arm as he guided her down the stairs, past his irksome brother, and toward his office. “Dear? You never did tell me who Agent Thames is. Should I be worried?”_ _

__“She's...formidable,” Mycroft replied. “But need I remind you so is Sherlock, so am I, and so are you.” Vesta glowed with his praise, feeling reassured by his words._ _

__They entered and saw a black leather chair turned away from them. After the door shut behind them, the chair spun around..._ _

__“Agent Thames,” Mycroft greeted her politely while Vesta tried to pick her jaw up off the floor._ _

__“Mrs. Hudson?!” Vesta gasped. For a moment, she was shocked, then...it all fell into place and everything made sense. Of course Mycroft would pick her to replace him in a time of crisis. Who else could he have picked?!_ _

__“Now, I'm just here to pass the torch back to you, and you can have it! What a mess!” Mrs. Hudson, Agent Thames announced. “I enjoyed it for a while, certain parts were fun, but so much of it was frightfully dull! Mucking about at a desk, on the phone all day. Compared to what I could get up to with Sherlock, I can tell you which I'd prefer. I can't see how you like it. And the sorts of people I had to consort with! Well, I can only hope that I did something worthwhile with the position.”_ _

__“Very much so, Agent Thames. You did far more good with your influence than I thought to do. I...appreciate...personally appreciate all that you were able to accomplish in your time. Any time you wish to take the reins again, you'd be welcome.”_ _

__Mrs. Hudson smiled across the desk at her old protege, her old friend. She shook his hand, formally. “I've got it all in hard copy for you, so you and Vesta can read it at your convenience. I'm sure you'll find everything to be in order. I'll stay here for a few more days while you get back into the swing of things. You two just rest, I'll take care of things for a bit longer.”_ _

__“Thank you, Agent Thames,” Vesta nodded in salute, positively giddy at who was the British Government for the past two years. “I can see why my husband trusted you so much. I'd have no one else fill his shoes.”_ _

__Mrs. Hudson stepped out from behind the big desk with a satisfied smile. “Oh, thank you, dear. Now, just do as I said and take it easy. My sources tell me you've been working awfully hard. Mr. Holmes, you haven't had a day off in nearly two weeks! So, don't you worry about a thing.”_ _

__“Understood,” Mycroft found himself unable to disagree with her. “I do hope there weren't any inconveniences to you with these goings-on.”_ _

__“Oh, it was my pleasure, dear. Call me any time. Now, off with you. You're on holiday, I mean it. Don't make me order you.”_ _

__They made their way out of the office, with an identical spring in their steps. “So, my dear, where would you like to spend our time off?”_ _

__Vesta didn't even need to think about it. “Lyon!”_ _

__“Lyon?” Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “If you want to go to France, wouldn't you at least want to visit Paris?”_ _

__“Tourist trap, no thank you!” Vesta waved it aside. “Now Lyon...that's where they invented food! I have to!”_ _

__Mycroft pondered this assertion. “That would make it more of a pilgrimage, then, wouldn't it?” His wife nodded. “Very well, I'll allow it, for religious reasons.”_ _

__“And, naturally, after that we can visit one of those day spas right by the Alps. Pampering...fresh mountain air...?”_ _

__He perked up at that suggestion. “Sounds absolutely perfect.”_ _


End file.
